Deck The Halls With Awesome Challenges
by Sendai
Summary: A series of one shots concerning Sherlock Holmes based on prompts for The December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dead. Mostly friendship fics. Mostly K but some could be T. For Dec. 31 Title for today The One or the Other, A Pirate AU prompted by Hades LotD, from December 17th. (A wee bit late...)
1. Chapter 1

This is to be a collection of one-shots based on prompts from the participants of The December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dead. As usual, I am running late. (as in I have missed half of the December challenges already). Hades LotD, graciously allowed me to join late anyway.

This is my first time joining a prompt challenge and my first time writing for Sherlock Holmes ( I usually reside in BBC SHERLOCK-land writing Johnlock), so please inform me (nicely) if I make any gaffs or otherwise mess up.

Disclaimer: Do we do disclaimers in Sherlock Holmes fanfics? Doesn't matter, because I don't own the rights to Sherlock Holmes.

So without further introduction, may I present: Today's prompt from Domina Temporis:

_Young Sherlock Holmes is a menace to gardens and chinaware. His parents insist he take lessons in something to keep him busy – but why did they have to pick the violin?_

I hope this one-shot is in keeping with your prompt. I know it's REALLY long. But hey, it's REALLY short for me (I always write too much! :D

**This fic is rated K+**.

**The Introduction**

The shattered vase lay amidst the pathetic remains of the dying lilies. The silly vase should not have been perched on the edge of the table where someone, who was practicing the art of navigating while blindfolded, would invariably crash into them.

The flowers were easily replaced, or they would have been if Sherlock hadn't scorched most of the flower bed when his newly invented flamethrower malfunctioned. That was really the fault of the cooper; if his barrel hadn't leaked, the special blend of whale oil and coal dust would not have spilled onto the garish lilies. They would not have ignited along with the straw-stuffed test dummy and…

"That vase was an antique, Mother will be displeased," commented his fat brother, whose tight collar was so close to choking him, yet, like the barrel, it failed in its duty.

"Shut up, Mycroft," muttered Sherlock.

"I was sent to tell you that Master Ambrogio is here for your first lesson," said Mycroft placidly. Mycroft was always placid, like a cow. An evil, brilliant bovine, who sat and chewed his cud all day, while secretly planning the eventual takeover of the British goverment.

"Don't pout. It's so plebian," murmured his bovine brother. "You brought this on yourself, Sherlock. Mother thought it would be best for you to develop a healthier past-time, aside from destroying the china and digging up the gardens."

"I didn't dig up the gardens; I burned them," corrected the pale, thin seven-year old who already sported a rather imperious nose.

"You dug up part of the kitchen garden a fortnight ago, looking for…what was it? Human remains?"

"The foreman who went missing forty years ago," announced Sherlock in a piping voice. "I found a button. It is at least fifty years old, it may have belonged to the victim or the perpetrator. I'm sure I was close to discovering the foreman's remains. He was killed by a jealous husband…"

"Master Ambrogio awaits in the music room," said Mycroft. "Mother wishes you to attend."

"No you wish me to attend. This was your idea. You wish me to die of boredom scraping across the strings of some stupid violin."

"Sherlock, go. If Master Ambrogio gives me a good report, I will _consider_ allowing you to attend the coroner's inquest tomorrow."

The boy narrowed his sharp eyes, considered the pluses and minuses, then held out his hand, "Agreed."

They shook on it and went their separate ways.

* * *

Sherlock strode into the music room, a room he seldom entered.

A short plump man (late twenties, unmarried, lives with a female relative, most likely his mother), stood in front of a flourishing palm like a black suited hippopotamus.

"And you ar'a Mas-ter Sherrrock," said Master Ambrogio. "I'ma to understand you want to learn to play violin. I'ma to teacha you."

"You are sadly misinformed," announced Sherlock. "I wish no such thing. However, I will cooperate for this one lesson- provided you stop using that stupid, fake accent. What is your real name?"

Master Ambrogio blinked. "My name is Alfred Winston. But I did train in Europe, principally in Florence, Italy…"

"Please, I asked for your name, not your entire life history," said Sherlock. "So teach me a song."

"Well…Well," said Alfred. "Perhaps I could introduce you to the violin."

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. Introduction indeed. Next the silly man would be aking Sherlock to bow to the wretched instrument.

Unfortuately, Sherlock had made an agreement and besides he really wanted to attend the inquest. He tried to pay attention to the pudgy fake Italian. He really did.

* * *

By the third lesson, Sherlock was capable of making his violin screech like a witch and shriek like a banshee.

By the sixth lesson, he could name all the notes, and find his fingering without fail. But he flatly refused to play the baby songs that Master Alfred tried to teach him.

Instead, he practiced making the banshee shriek, to terrorize his brother during the next thunderstorm.

By the tenth lesson, Master Alfred was ready to admit defeat.

"It's a shame that with those long fingers, you still cannot manage to play single note," said Master Alfred wistfully.

Sherlock smirked, he did not _want_ to manage to play a single note.

"Well, I'm sorry you found the violin too challenging," continued Master Alfred. "Perhaps your family will want you to try the piano instead?"

"I didn't find it challenging, Master Alfred. I found it dull," corrected Sherlock.

"Prove it, play the beginning of that Chopin, which I adapted just for you," challenged Alfred, looking more like a card sharp than a music teacher.

"You are merely trying to manipulate me," said Sherlock. "It's not unlike two boys making a dare."

"Yes, I am," said Alfred genially. "Prove me wrong. Prove you're a genius."

Sherlock didn't want to play, primarily because Mycroft and his parents wanted him to. He so wanted to fail, just to show that he would _not_ be bullied into playing a violin. On the other hand, he wanted to prove that he was a genius.

Master Alfred tapped his foot and began playing the sprightly Cholin.

"Please feel free to join in any time, Master Sherlock…Don't be afraid."

The boy stiffened. Sherlock Holmes was _never _afraid. He placed the small, student sized violin under his chin and held his bow at the ready, waiting for Alfred to return to the beginning of the piece.

Now Sherlock joined in. It was rough; he was frequently off key, which was all the more noticeable as he followed his teacher's flowing notes. But Master Alfred did not slow down for his pupil. No, he pushed the boy to try harder. He pulled his pupil after him, chasing down the notes one after another. They played for an hour and a half, until both were tired and glowing (which, as Sherlock had been informed, was the polite word for sweating.)

"Brilliant! Bravo!" said Alfred, mopping his brow with his pocket handkerchief and smiling.

"Do not patronize me," said Sherlock with a pout combined with a scowl. "I was awful. I was slow, and clumsy and missed as many notes as I hit."

"This was the first time you actually played, Master Sherlock. I consider _this _to be your first lesson. Therefore, you played brilliantly. It is a pity you don't want to continue with your lessons, because I sincerely believe you have talent. It is so sad to see talent and, dare I say genius, go to seed." Alfred shook his head sadly.

Sherlock studied the rotund musician. Even at seven, Sherlock was learning how to read people, and Alfred radiated sincerity.

"As usual, you misunderstand me," said the pale, intense boy. "When I said that I had enough lessons, I meant the other kind. I do not wish to have any more lessons where I hunt for A minor or F sharp, nor will I play nursery rhymes. I will only participate in lessons where we will play music. Real music like the Chopin or the Bach. I am confident that I will soon prove to you that I am a genius."

* * *

"Holmes, who is this Alfred Winston?" asked Doctor Watson as he sipped his morning tea and sorted the mail. He proffered a small card, edged in somber black.

"What? What?" snapped Sherlock Holmes who paced in front of the fireplace, leaving a billowing trail of tobacco smoke in his wake, while he ruminated on his latest case.

"You insisted that I open your mail, Holmes," said the good doctor. "I have sad news concerning an Alfred Winston."

"Winston, Winston…Ah, my old music teacher, Watson," said the great detective. "Sad news you say. You mean he died."

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes."

"Mmm, yes he's been fading the last two years. I always told him that his corpulent habitus would be the death of him. Which reminds me, you've surely put on half a stone this winter, best not have any more toast, Doctor. I wouldn't want to lose my personal physician."

"I have _not_ put on weight," said Doctor Watson, smoothing down the front of his tight waistcoat. He frowned from underneath his mustache. "It doesn't matter, I'm running late. Sorry, Holmes."

"Sorry, whatever for, Watson?"

"For the loss of your old friend and teacher."

"Who said he was a friend?"

"I say it," said Watson with conviction. "And I am sorry for your loss."

"And I say you are going to be very late for your meeting, Watson," said Sherlock, waving his hand dismissively "Off you go!"

After the good doctor hurried out for his appointment (having left his toast untouched) the consulting detective took out his violin.

He tuned it.

Then he made it scream like a witch and screech like a banshee.

Then he began the Chopin, a simple dance tune, adapted for a young student. He played all the old tunes, swaying in time, in memory of the man who introduced him to the violin.


	2. Chapter 2

This the second installment for The December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness. This one-shot was inspired by the prompt: '_Mistletoe'_, provided by Poseidon God of the Seas

**Rated T** for non-graphic violence

**Mistletoe **

"The mustache stays," I said firmly.

"But _you_ have the perfect build to impersonate a war widow of advancing years…"

"You are digging the hole deeper, Holmes," said I, touching my graying hair. "I will _not_ sacrifice my mustache," (I was not a vain man, but confess that I was, and still am, much attached to the hair which was attached above my upper lip). "and therefore I will not be impersonating Mrs. Carruthers, today, tomorrow or any day in the future."

"You are strangely stubborn on this matter, Watson," stated the great detective and my best friend. "It will grow back…"

"There is no need for it to grow back, because it is staying _in situ_!" said I.

"Very well, I shall have to impersonate Mrs. Carruthers," said he, much put out. "I shall have to return the dress, which I purchased for _especially_ for you, Watson. I shall then have to find a suitable dress that fits me. It is aggravating in the extreme." He loomed impressively over my seat by the fire, willing me to acquiesce to his schemes as usual, but for once I remained unmoved.

"Well then," he began again. "It is fortunate that the wealthy widow has been overseas these past three decades, and that she has no family aside from her nephew. The people at the gala are only acquainted with that nephew, Matthew Greenstreet, so I suppose that if I cannot convince you to remove that little bit of superfluous facial hair…."

"You cannot."

And he did not.

* * *

The pre-Christmas gala at Sir _'s house was festive and crowded. The food was a bit meager, and the wine was barely drinkable, but the music was quite lively. I kept to the corners as instructed and found my foot tapping in time as I scanned the crowd, but I did not see anyone that I felt might answer to the description of the so-called 'ballroom bandit.'

It seemed a shame not to dance with some of the lovely ladies who clearly wanted an escort out onto the floor, but I kept to my post like the good soldier that I was. At least the poor quality of the vino kept me away from _that_ temptation.

Far across the ballroom, seated with the faded belles of yesteryear, was the great detective himself. Dressed in austere black, with black lace draped over his grey-haired wig, he looked to me rather too vulturine to be a true widow. Still, better him than me, wearing widow's weeds and diamonds . Tonight, he too carried a cane, black with a silver handle. It was very fine, and if I coveted it a little, well, surely no one was the wiser.

* * *

The night wore on towards eleven o'clock, and I felt a bit let down at the lack of developments. Just then, Holmes, seemed to have spotted something, or should I say_ someone_. Whatever captured his attention, I saw the disguised detective rise and then rapidly make his way out, heading towards the main hall.

As quickly as was possible, given the many merry makers and my now stiff knee, I followed. I saw him, dressed as the Widow Carruthers vanish into the alcove under the stairs. I hurried through the glittering press of the wealthy and powerful citizens of London.

Imagine my astonishment when I peered into the alcove and beheld the great detective embracing a stout, well-built, balding man, of say fifty or sixty years.

"Mistletoe!" called the man gaily.

Holmes didn't move a muscle. That worried me.

"Ah, well then, I suppose I must salute the lady as well," I said moving closer, even though the detective shook his head ever so slightly.

Fearing the worst, I allowed my cane to seem to slip on the marble floor. I then fell after it, as if over balanced, crashing into the stout gentleman and pushing Holmes safely out-of-the-way.

Sure enough, the man showed me a knife, small but deadly enough. Thankfully, my particular friend appeared to be unharmed. But he had been threatened, and this enraged me.

Clearly, the thief, for who else could it be, assumed that I was drunk, clumsy or both. He smiled and held his knife out as he backed toward what I thought might be a closet.

Or was it an exit? I looked at the door, and took my eyes off of the ballroom bandit for only a second.

"Watson, look out!" cried Holmes from behind me, as the man lunged forward. I dodged just out of range, keeping myself between Holmes and our knife-wielding assailant.

"Cane!" I demanded.

Holmes thrust his cane at me, and I brandished it just in time to stop the blade, inches from my chest. The thief and I stared at one another as if equally astonished.

Then I twisted the cane, bringing it down sharply on his wrist. The knife dropped. I turned the cane and jabbed the man's stately paunch; he doubled over, winded.

Handing the cane back to Holmes, I quickly moved behind the blackguard and twisted his arm behind his back.

"Well done, Watson!" said Holmes, "Although I'm sure I had things well in hand before you arrived."

"Yes, indeed," I grunted, as I forced the thief out into the crowd which had gathered. "You'll do anything to catch your man, even seduce him under the mistletoe!"

I grinned, thinking that I was quite the wag, but Holmes speared me with his sharp glance, and I lost the urge to chuckle at my own joke.

* * *

In order to preserve his dignity as the great detective and to prevent further unpleasant scenes, Holmes remained in disguise, while I received credit for capturing the jewel thief. It was a bit embarrassing, and I was glad that I normally stayed in the background where I belonged.

"Now, Sir," said a young overdressed journalist wearing an over-abundance of houndstooth.  
"As this here fine lady owes you for saving her diamonds and possibly her life, I think she should reward you under that mistletoe."

There was a smattering of applause from the some of the more curious partiers.

I was, of course, appalled. It was disrespectful in the extreme to suggest this sort of nonsense to a respectable widow, even an imitation widow.

And that led to the second problem. How on earth could I kiss _Holmes_ under the mistletoe?

I sputtered my objections citing the lady's respectability and virtue and my own sense of right and wrong.

"Hush, young man," hissed the stately widow, "The sooner it's done, the better."

Oh dear, this was payback for my reckless comment about seducing men under the mistletoe, but the widow's apparent acquiescence, I could no longer protest, without looking churlish.

Sir _, our host, pushed and prodded me, until I stood next to the widow underneath that mistletoe, which had already played such mischief.

The widow took charge, as well she might. After all, I had been ready to fight for her honor, and _she_ had stopped me.

She bent slowly forward, her dry lips unmoving as she…he…whispered, "Only recall that many European men share kisses daily."

A hand wrapped around my neck.

Then the dry lips touched mine. I smelled tea and tobacco and found them surprisingly warm against mine. They touched me again, the second kiss captured for the public and for posterity by the hack photographer.

The widow, grinning wickedly, curtseyed. I bowed, and overcome by gallantry and the lack of air (I had temporarily forgotten to breathe), I kissed the widow's hand.

"Breathe, Watson," hissed Holmes. Used to following his instructions, I took a breath and managed a smile.

* * *

That Christmas, Holmes gifted me with the silver-topped cane, which I had coveted so badly. I cherish this gift from my particular friend and only use it on very special occasions. The elegant cane serves as a support for my leg and as a reminder of the never-to-be-published Case of the Ballroom Bandit.

There are other reminders too. Holmes framed the photo of Mrs. Carruthers kissing her hero under the mistletoe. He insisted on hanging it in our already cluttered parlor, supposedly in honor of my pugilistic skills…I suspect he merely wanted to tease me.

Then there is the annual reminder of this case, because every December, my best friend and constant companion decorates our shared flat with at least a dozen sprigs of fresh mistletoe, grinning wickedly all the while.

FINIS

Reviews Welcomed


	3. The Chimney

This is the entry for December 14th in the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dark.

The prompt is '_Chimney_', provided by Wordwielder.

**Rated K+**

**The Chimney**

"Holmes!" I hissed, "Get out of there before you get stuck!"

"Nonsense! Thanks to my restraint at table, I am fit enough to…to fit in…into…this chimney," said the great detective. The last bit of his speech was a bit labored as he apparently strained, perhaps reaching overhead in an effort to find the hiding place of the Mogok's Heart ruby, recently stolen from Mrs. _'s boudoir.

I could only see his long, lean legs standing in the fireplace like a pared down version of Father Christmas. Soot and cinders rained down, and I heard the man coughing. Then I heard his exclamation of triumph.

"I have it! Do you hear me, Watson, I have it," his voice was muffled, yet I could hear his almost childish glee at solving yet another mystery.

He shifted, and ash trickled down into the fireplace.

"I'm sure…that this box… holds the missing pigeon's blood… gemstones," said the consultant detective. His feet rocked back and forth and seemed to twist to the side, but the whippet thin frame of the consulting detective did not appear.

I felt the first frisson of worry tingle down my spine.

"I told those idiots from the Yard…I told them that the jewels…had never…left the…building," he said, still squirming. "And here is the proof. It was…it was the butler…working with the apprentice chimney sweep who… his nephew…" There he stopped momentarily, grunting with effort. "Watson, perhaps...perhaps if you could just… give my coat a tug?"

'_Oh my G-,' _I thought. '_He's stuck.'_

"You're stuck, aren't you?" I almost shouted, leaning into the fireplace. "I knew this would happen!"

"Not to worry. I'm sure it is the coat…caught on a rough bit of brick…" he said, sounding ever so slightly _concerned_. "Just give the coat a tug, as I requested, and all will be well."

As I was alone in the library of Mrs. _'s townhouse, and as my particular friend was now stuck in the chimney of the fireplace in the library in Mrs. _'s house, I allowed myself to vent, using some choice phrases which I had picked up during my years in the army. Then, as requested, I tugged on the great man's coat.

"You are not really trying," he complained, his muffled voice now sounded annoyed.

I stopped tugging and began pulling hard.

"That's better," he said, approvingly. But then he added. "Do exert yourself to the fullest. Pull… but do _not_ tear the coat. I have only just purchased it you know."

I softly repeated my choice army invectives.

Then he coughed and soot rained down on my head and torso. I grimaced at the filth, then, as he coughed again, I began to worry in earnest. Was it possible that Holmes could choke to death, stuck ignominiously in a chimney? I recalled that only a few years before my birth, a chimney sweep's assistant had suffocated in a hospital chimney. Not quite the same situation, but still...

I tugged and pulled energetically at the coat, but to no avail.

"That is not working, and you will surely ruin the fit of my coat," complained Holmes. "Pull _strategically_. Use your native wit and pull with _reason_, Watson."

"What does that even mean?" I asked, as I worried at the coat. "How am I supposed to... I'm afraid that _you_ are being unreasonable."

"Me? My dear Watson, I am the voice of reason…"

"You have got yourself trapped in a chimney, so that," I snapped my fingers at the 'voice of reason'. "So that for your reasoning and logic."

"Thanks to my reasoning, I have relocated the rubies," said the cold, no-doubt affronted, voice of reason.

Even in my agitation, I knew that there was no reasoning with him now.

"What are you doing," he brought himself to ask as I squirmed into the fireplace, bumping his legs and ruining my trousers.

"I am getting ready to pull on your coat _reasonably_," I said.

"Good man," he said once more approving. "Just try to spare the coat."

I bit back additional colorful army phrases and instead said, "I think it is too late to spare your coat. I fear that it's already stained beyond repair."

He was silent for a few moments, as I tugged as strategically as possible on his long overcoat.

"I believe that you are correct, Watson," said the detective. "The coat is certainly ruined already. But he added rallying, "at least it can be said that it was ruined in a good cause."

"Oh yes!" I cried.

'Tear away, Doctor Watson," he said, missing my sarcasm, "I long to open the box, which assuredly contains Moguk's Heart…"

He carried on with his newfound loquaciousness. I attributed his volubility to possible anxiety, which he surely even he must feel, being stuck in a chimney.

And I was was certain that even if he was not anxious, I most certainly was, because our combined efforts had not succeeded in freeing my dear friend.

I stopped again, trying to think in spite of his rattle (about the cinders in the stairwell which had led him to the fireplace). Instead I tried to follow his earlier admonition and imagine how one could strategically pull a stuck companion out. Then I thought about extracting corks from bottles. Leaning backwards, I reached up and roughly pulled the coat (and the detective within), first to one side and then to the other.

It felt as if he shifted slightly.

"Yes, Watson, that's it!" said Holmes exultantly. "Repeat as necessary, my good man!"

Grasping the soiled wool, (his new coat would be good only for the rag-pickers now), I pulled with all of my might first to the left, then to the right.  
I felt a definite movement.

I added a downward tug to the clockwise twisting motion clockwise. I repeated this motion anti-clockwise.

"That's done i…Ohhh," he cried, as he slipped free.

"Oh!" I cried as the consulting detective tumbled on top of me.

Holmes himself grinned widely, his teeth bright in his blackened face. Indeed, he could now pass for any chimney sweep, aside from his too wide shoulders, which had caused his embarrassment in the first place.

"My dear Watson, you look a sight," he said.

"Look who's calling the kettle black," said I, beginning to chuckle with relief, as he disentangled himself.

"Indeed, I fear we are both well blacked, but never mind that," he said climbing out of the fireplace with as much grace as any acrobat. "Let us see what this box contains!"

"Well, for Heaven's sake, get me out of here first!" I cried, for I was no acrobat. Already I could feel the strain in my back and in my formerly injured leg.

"So sorry old chap!" he said, solicitously giving me a hand up and then handing me my cane.

Holmes then strode over to the window, and I followed as quickly as my stiff leg allowed. Again, we shared grins, as excited as children on Christmas morning.

He easily opened the wooden case.

I gasped in awe at the sight of the gleaming ruby-studded chain and Mogok's Heart, the pigeon's blood ruby pendant, resting against the ivory velvet lining.

"Brilliant, Holmes," I exclaimed, gazing with wonder at the beautiful blood-red gems.

"Brilliant indeed," he agreed, with a tiger's smile.

* * *

Inspector Lestrade, the sallow, rat-faced representative from Scotland Yard, stood in front of us, eyeing the gems with poorly disguised avarice, while Constable Higgins kept hold of the disheartened butler who had confessed in the face of Holmes's deductions.

"So the butler took the rubies after Mrs._ took her nightly soother," said the inspector. (I frowned here, disapproving of the all too liberal use of laudanum to sooth Mrs._ into insensibility, but I was not her physician and kept this opinion to myself.) "…and he, the butler, handed them, the jewels, off to the chimney sweep," continued Lestrade who was summarizing the consulting detective's earlier narrative while laboriously taking notes in his little notebook.

"Yes, that young scalawag is not only an under-aged and therefore illegal chimney sweep, he is also the butler's nephew. And I greatly fear that young Ted and his father, the master chimney sweep, have probably fled London by now," said the great detective. "Thanks to your incompetence. You had that young sweep in your custody, Lestrade. You managed to conceive of his possible guilt, but you did not work hard enough to find the proof that you required in order to hold him. You did not examine the chimney…"

"Well, sir," protested Inspector Lestrade defensively, "Well! We also saw the soot on the carpets, and you know very well that we _did _look into the chimney."

"But not far enough!" exclaimed Holmes, who was a somewhat frightening vision with his red eyes in a black streaked face. I suddenly wondered if _that_ was why the butler confessed so easily.

"We looked into it as far as we could without getting trapped!" exclaimed Lestrade in return. "I'm surprised _you_ didn't find yourself stuck in that chimney, Mr. Holmes, " said Inspector Lestrade shrewdly.

Of course, given our grimy appearance and our no-doubt loud exertions earlier in the afternoon, I can only assume that the inspector had deduced the consulting detective's earlier embarrassment.

This did not stop Holmes from snapping, "You must learn to be more thorough. Sloppy work is no excuse for failure. Happily, I was able to retrieve these gems for Mrs._before the thieves could return for them."

Lestrade did not press the issue. Perhaps he felt some charity, in keeping with the holiday season, anyway, Lestrade did not tease Holmes about his embarrassing entrapment, for which, I was grateful.

"Yes, well this was pretty piece of detecting, Mr. Holmes, I'm sure," said Mr. Lestrade, earning him a smile of thanks from your truly.

"Bah!" said Holmes affecting boredom. "This case was no challenge. It was so easy as to be dull,"

But I knew for a fact that he was pleased, that this case had diverted him, at least for this one afternoon. And anything that diverted that great mind, even for a few hours, was a blessing in my book.

It was worth the cost of some new clothes just to see him safely released from the chimney's cindery trap, showing off his undimmed brilliance to the men of Scotland Yard.

* * *

A/N

-In the 18th and 19th centuries, a 'particular friend' meant a very close friend, a best friend. I can vouch for the term's use in the early 19th century but not the latter half. I chose to use it anyway because I've always liked the way it sounds.

-Many rubies were found in the area surrounding the city of Moguk, in Burma (now also referred to a Myanmar). The region was noted for spectacular gemstones. Including blood red stones sometimes called pigeon's blood rubies. I made up the stone called the Moguk's Heart ruby. Consider it artistic license.

-In the United Kingdom, boys (and even girls) were employed to climb into chimneys to facilitate cleaning. Beginning in the late seventeenth century through the mid-nineteenth century regulations were enacted to limit, and then prohibit the use of children in this fashion, due to the very real risk of suffocation and also the long term health hazards of prolonged exposure to soot and especially creosote.

In 1875, a young apprentice sweep, named George Brewster, died after smothering in a chimney. The master was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to six months of hard labor. New more stringent laws were enacted, and the practice of using children to clean out chimneys became punishable by law.

-And no, I don't think Holmes was in any real danger of suffocation from compression, although the ashes and cinders could have caused him real breathing problems. Fortunately, Watson's reasonably strategic tugging saved the day… or at least the detective. :D

And if you've nothing else to do...please review. :D


	4. Snowballs and Snowangels

This is the entry for December 15th in the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dark.

The prompt is '_Holmes gets a concussion in a snowball fight', _provided by Catherine Spark.

**Rated K+**

**Snowballs and Snowangels**

The darkened room only seemed quiet. The the clock on the wall ticked regularly, reminding one consulting detective that tempus fugit. Snow and sleet struck the windows with the patter of icy little feet. A warm fire crackled cozily in the fireplace and Doctor John Watson, slumped in a near by chair, snoring softly and reliably, which was how he did most things really.

The doctor's elbow slipped off the arm of the chair and he awoke with a start and a silly little snort, staring around the room in confusion, until his eyes alit on his patient.

"Oh, Holmes," said the doctor. "You are awake."

"Excellent diagnosis doctor. No wonder you are in such high demand from all of London's patients," said the patient acerbically.

"Hmm, perhaps I can make another diagnosis or two. You do know that diagnoses are, in reality, types of deductions," said Doctor Watson with a gentle smile. "To begin with, I can deduce that you are feeling both better and worse."

"Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired," snapped Holmes, irritably. "As do your riddles."

"You are now lucid and in command of your faculties, indicating that you are recovering from your concussion."

"Ah, it is as I deduced from my sore head and the rather large bandage over my temple; I have suffered some form of head trauma."

"Yes indeed, and the head ache is what I referred to when I said you were feeling worse," said the doctor. "Now, I shall perform a brief reexamination…"

"Tedious."

"Then I shall get a warm compress to place over your eyes to reduce the pounding in your head. By the way, do you feel sick to your stomach?"

"I do not," said Holmes with a frown. "But I wish to know how I came to this sad pass."

"You have no recollection the fight?"

"No, none. The last thing that I remember is leaving the Diogenes club after a meeting with my brother…"

"Mmmm," hummed the doctor, who examined his patients eyes.

"Have you nothing to add, Doctor?" asked Holmes.

"Say 'ah'," added the physician.

Knowing that Doctor Watson was firm and unyielding when practicing medicine, the great detective had no choice but to coöperate. On the plus side, the detective's patience was soon rewarded.

"Well, your color, your exam, your mental acuity all seem to have returned to normal," said the doctor. "I think a warm cloth…"

"I would prefer a cool glass of water and some laudanum."

"The water you shall have. The laudanum is contraindicated…"

"Because I have used the opium on occasion?"

"Well, yes, in part," said Watson. "But laudanum or opium would not be advisable for any patient with a concussion. Here is your water."

The patient glared at the water and at his personal physician.

The doctor frowned, half expecting to have the water thrown in his face.

Holmes dropped his eyes without throwing water on his best (and arguably) and only friend. Instead he sipped the refreshing water, bringing relief to his parched mouth and scratchy throat.

"Doctor Watson, do you know how I came to be injured?"

"Indeed yes. You were in a snowball fight, and you lost to a horse."

"A snowball fight?" asked the beak-nosed man incredulously. "Me?...and I lost? To a horse?"

* * *

"As I understand it, you were heading back to Baker Street when you were accosted by some of those informers that you cultivate."

"You mean the Irregulars?"

"Yes. Billy said…"

"So you were not there too?"

"Not at that point in time. No," said Watson, a small smile playing around his lips. "Now if you would lie back and allow me to place this cloth over your eyes, I think you would feel better."

"It sounds dreadfully dull."

"But while you are resting as your doctor has instructed, I will relate the series of events which led to your unfortunate injury."

Holmes, lay back against the many pillows which his doctor arranged _just so_.

Then the warm wet cloth was laid across his eyes. As he had feared, the cloth was annoying, not comforting.

Then Watson's familiar voice recommenced with his story.

"So. some of the Irregulars ran up to you, not with information, as is their wont. No, today they issued a challenge, which you apparently accepted."

"Indeed?" said the great detective, who had relaxed into the pillows and the _slightly_ soothing warmth of the cloth, which possibly made his eyes and head feel a bit less achey.

"It seems they challenged you to a snowball fight."

"That seems unfair, several small agile boys against one man," murmured Holmes, relishing the mild pain relief due to the compress and someone's quite attentions.

"Yes, that's apparently what you told Wiggins too; you said it was unfair," said Watson. "and you insisted on calling in an ally."

"You?"

"Me."

"I was reluctant to participate," said Doctor Watson, "but you were insistent. I gave into the wheedling and the puppy dog looks that I received from you and Wiggins."

"What could have been my motive to participate in such an activity?" mused Holmes.

"Well, I _suppose_ you might have thought it would be fun, or it could have been sentiment…"

"Bite your tongue, Watson."

"Howsomever, we both agreed to the challenge…"

"Why did you agree, Doctor?"

"I told you, I succumbed to puppy dog eyes."

"You mean Wiggins's puppy dog eyes, obviously."

"Well, his and someone else's." conceded Watson.

"Surely you do not intend to mean that I had eyes of any sort!"shouted Holmes. He sat up, allowing the compress to fall to his chest.

"Calm yourself, Holmes. You must remain calm and tranquil until you have recovered. That cloth will be getting cold, I shall replace it with a warm one."

A firm hand gripped Watson's sturdy wrist, briefly stopping the exchange .

"I have never suffered from puppy dog eyes!" snapped the detective.

"Ah, and I never said that you did. Now, if you will not calm down, I shall have to leave and call in a nurse…"

"I am calm. I am a model of serenity," said the agitated detective."Obviously we agreed to this ridiculous challenge for motives that I have yet to deduce and shall not try to deduce for now.…Well, don't dawdle; carry on with your narrative, Watson!"

"Well, we met the Irregulars at the park. Our two teams stood on either side of an overgrown path. I remarked at how cold it was..."

"Once again, displaying your superb observational skills," said the detective.

The doctor expected invalids to be somewhat short-tempered, and he did not allow his patient's present irritability to dismay him. Instead, he continued to relate the tale of the days events. He said, "We were given several moments to gather our weapons…"

"I assume you mean snowballs?" said Holmes, who had once more settled back with the fresh cloth on his forehead.

"Indeed, you remarked on the remarkably shoddy construction of my snowballs, yet I had twice as many as you did before the action commenced. Then one of the boys stuck his fingers between his lips and whistled, which began the affray," continued Watson. "At once, snowballs flew fast and furious."

"Who was the most accurate snowball marksman?" asked Holmes.

"Well, honestly it was that little one. The one that you claim is a little girl dressed as a boy…"

"Yes. Yes. Of course she's a girl I can tell by her shoes and her cuffs."

"Anyway, as I said the snowballs flew fast and…"

"Actually, what I meant, was which of us was the most accurate…between you and me?"

"I was. At the risk of sounding immodest, I was more accurate and faster than you. I impressed Wiggins, who insists that I will be on his team in the event of a future snowball match."

Holmes made a disconsolate noise in the back of his throat. He hated to be bested in anything.

"Would you care for some more water?" asked the doctor.

"Not just yet."

"Very well, I will say that you were much more devious, and I know that will please your pride. I hit the enemy hard and fast with my poorly constructed yet fully functional grenados, scoring points and _distracting them_. Which is when you took advantage of said distraction to out flank them…"

"Did I?" asked the detective, brightening up a bit.

"Yes, you came upon them unawares and scored many and many direct hits…using their own assembled snowballs, I might add, which added to their collective dismay."

"Just so," said Holmes agreeably.

"Then disaster struck."

"Did it?"

"It did. We were closing in on the enemy," Watson related. "I came up from the south and you from the east. I stood in the bridle path, demanding that Wiggins and his ruffians cease and desist."

"What was I doing?"

"Exchanging volleys with their tiny marksman," said Watson. "Shall I change the cloth over your eyes?"

"No! You shall continue your tale, if you please…it is moderately diverting," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Well…As I said I stood in the path…"

"_Repetition_," growled Holmes.

"Please do not interrupt. I was in the path, and a horseman came tearing along. I'm afraid I was not aware of the approach of the horse and rider, and when I did see my danger, I stumbled, having misplaced my cane."

"Good God!" exclaimed Holmes. "I remember the horse bearing down on you! A great black brute with fool for a rider!"

Oh, said Watson, "The rider was a very pretty woman named…"

"She was a negligent fool. She nearly ran you down! You could have been killed!" snapped Holmes.

"Sit back and be a model of serenity, if you please. And never mind the lady rider, I doubt we ever see her again-I may have unleashed some strong, ungentlemanly invective, when I saw you were injured. But I am getting ahead of myself. I was not killed or run down because _you_ leapt out from the brush, pushing me out of the path of danger, but sadly, you knocked your head against a log."

"But you are uninjured?" demanded Holmes removing the warm compress from his eyes, in order to deduce his doctor. "No, you were injured… I can see that you sustained multiple scrapes and bruises…and I see that your leg was damaged…"

"It's nothing, only a hoof glanced off my leg…"

"Leaving a severe contusion. AND you required stitches! You should be keeping your leg elevated, not sitting up half the night in here!"

"I'm fine. You on the other hand were senseless for several minutes and confused for much longer than that. I confess that up until a few minutes ago, I was very concerned, Holmes. It was not until you displayed your usual sharp sense and lucidity, that I could truly relax. I'm sure you understand that concussions can be very serious. So yes I sat up with you until I was certain that you were in no danger; who else would I trust to watch over my brother aside from myself!"

"Sentiment!" scoffed Holmes.

"Well, so it is and so be it. You are my brother in everything but name as you well know," said Watson. "Now, you need to drink some more water. I shall replace your cloth and then you will rest quietly…modeling serenity."

"I see that I shall soon regret that phrase," muttered the consulting detective as he drank more water. "And I am not tired, Watson. I have had enough of sleep."

"Nevertheless, the treatment for a concussion is rest," said the good doctor. "I wouldn't mind taking forty winks myself."

Holmes noted the deep shadows under his friend's eyes. Despite his own injuries and exhaustion, the doctor had sat up with to nurse his friends concussion. Perhaps, that sort of loyalty deserved some respect.

"Fine. We shall rest," Holmes acquiesced, "but why don't you go to your room, Doctor and…"

"I am not moving from this chair," said the doctor. "Well, first I shall replace the compress on your head. Then I shall sit back in this chair and not move from it, for several hours, or so I hope."

"At least elevate your leg, Watson. I can see how much it pains you…If you were to move your chair two feet closer, you could rest your foot on the end of the bed."

John Watson bit his lip. "I suppose it could work."

"Obviously it would work. I would hardly suggest it otherwise."

"Right", said Watson, hobbling over to give Holmes a warm cloth for his head. Then he pushed the wingback chair closer to the bed.

"I do want to remain nearby, just for the first twenty-four hours," said Watson. "I shall be close by should you need me and it will allow me to ensure that you actually rest for today. But I suppose there's no harm in making myself comfortable while I do so."

"You'll need a blanket," asserted Holmes.

"Yes Mum," said John, with a strangled snort that was meant to be a laugh but which had inadvertently mixed with a yawn. "I have the blanket Mrs. Hudson brought me last night."

"Ah, I do not remember coming home last night," said Holmes.

"No, well I'm afraid the knock on your head left you quite bemused."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You kept asking about the snow angels," said Watson.

"Ah…well…"

"Wiggins and that strong, stout lad, named Pierre, helped me bring you back to Baker Street," continued the doctor. "We, with the able assistance of Mrs. Hudson, got you settled in bed. You called all of us your…your…your snow angels," sniggered Watson.

The injured detective lifted a corner of his cloth to better glare at his personal physician and particular friend.

"I am so pleased that I am able to provide you with this excess of mirth, in spite of my reduced state," said the detective icily.

"Now see here, Holmes. It's all in good fun, and you would have laughed too, had you seen your beatific smiles as you blessed each of your snow angels."

"It is no fun for me," snapped Holmes.

"Well, then there's an end to it," said the doctor to placate his patient. "To finish the account, I assured the boys that you would recover and gave them some money for their troubles. Mrs. Hudson took them down to the kitchen and fed them up before sending them on their way. After all that, I kept you awake for six hours, and then let you sleep for…for nearly eight hours. I woke you periodically of course and you said…umm, well...lets say that you seemed well enough each time and I allowed you to sleep on.

"Even with my eyes covered, I can hear that you are still smiling over the ridiculous angels," deduced the detective with a hint of petulance.

Watson's smirk dropped into a guilty, remorseful frown. "Seriously, Holmes. If anyone here is an angel, it is you, who saved me once again from injury or possibly even death…"

'Watson, you know I deplore flowery, melodramatic speeches," said Holmes. "And yours is not only melodramatic, it is inaccurate."

"I beg your pardon, but you did save me…"

"I attempted to save you. However, I was clumsy and so managed to injure myself and you as well."

The good doctor tutted, "Nonsense, you did the best you could, and we are lucky to have escaped in as good shape as we did."

"Hmm, perhaps my intervention prevented you from a more serious injury," said Holmes. "in that case, my knock on the head, as you call it, was well worth it."

"Well, you deserve my thanks for your 'intervention' on my behalf…"

"As you deserve my thanks for caring so assiduously for me tonight and on so many other occasions," interrupted Holmes. "We could thank each other ad nauseam. Or let us agree that we have frequently helped one another and perhaps saved one another as brothers might, and let well enough alone. It is what we do, and thus I believe that there is no call for thanks between us."

"Well…well, really… Holmes... I don't..."

"And if I hear one sniffle, if I find that you have shed a single tear, I shall call for Mrs. Hudson and have you removed!"

"I never cry," lied Watson stoutly. "If I have sniffled, it is no doubt due wearing cold, damp clothing for several hours before I could change my attire."

"Hmph," grunted Holmes. "If you are coming down with a head cold, you should get some rest. Surely your own bed…"

"I am a doctor, and you are not. Kindly refrain from giving me medical advice," said Watson. "With my legs supported on the bed, I am most comfortable, and a few hours sleep will do us both a world of good. If you need nothing else?"

"I am in need of nothing."

"Then I _shall_ close my eyes for a bit," said Watson settling down into his chair and pulling Mrs. Hudson's quilt up to his chin. "Call me at once should you need anything."

"Good night, Watson."

"Good night, Holmes."

Within minutes, Watson was snoring. Holmes peered out from under his cloth. Indeed, the good doctor was sound asleep.

Holmes smirked and crept carefully out from under his covers. He stood slowly, to be sure that he was steady after his _knock on the head_, but happily, he remained steady and relatively strong. Even his head pain had moderated to a very mild, dull ache, easily ignored.

The lean detective drew on his long, warm dressing gown and leather slippers. He'd had enough sleep to last him at least several days and there was an important experiment waiting to be completed in the sitting room.

On his way out, he gently touched the shoulder of his loudly snoring best friend, silently grateful that, in the end, no serious harm had come to his occasionally angelic brother. Then the great man crept out of the room, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his experiment with the nitric acid and...

* * *

A/N

-Old fashioned medical wisdom recommended that concussed patients be kept awake, primarily to observe the patient for worsening neurologic symptoms. If the patients slept, they were to be woken frequently to check for any changes. If the patient's condition deteriorated badly enough, doctors might have tried to reduce the suspected increased intracranial pressure by drilling a hole in the skull with a trephine. If blood clots were removed or if the pressure was sufficiently reduced-and if the wound did not become infectioned-the patient might actually survive.

Luckily, Holmes did not require such heroic treatment from his snow angel…I mean physician of course.

* * *

Please review,

Or I'll be blue.

I'll luv you,

If you review.

Plus, I'll stop

Writing bad poetry. :D


	5. War Wounds

This is the entry for December 16th in the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dark.

*****You may be tempted to say, "But Sendai, this is a day late."

And I would reply, "Yes, it is late. Real life got in the way of my writing time, and on top of that, this was a difficult challenge."

You might respond with, "No excuses, please!"

And I would say, "Right then! Never mind the excuses, and I do apologize for the delay.' I'd then add, 'This fic is based on a prompt from the honorable Stutley Constable, who requested a work based on '_Holmes' old war wounds'. _The following drabble is the result of this prompt. I hope that it suits."

Then I would have to add, "It has been many years since I read the original ACD works. Even with my one-day extension, I was unable to document in canon any serious injuries sustained by S. Holmes. While _you_ no doubt will instantly recall many canon-compliant examples-sadly it is too late too include them in this fic. I therefore created some injuries and cases for this fic. Please forgive me for taking this poetic license...And yes, I am using that crutch for a second time this month. So sue me."

* * *

**Rated T** for a few very mild curses.

**War Wounds**

The old man pulled aside the veil attached to his beekeeper's hat as he slowly walked away from the hives. The hives and the busy lives of the bees always captured his attention. He could spend hours watching them work, watching them flit and crawl, dive and dance.

Well, he did in fact spend hours out in the back of the garden peering into the lives of the tiny hive dwellers. If only he hadn't spent quite so much time that day…

He shook his head. It was still covered with thick hair, but heavily frosted now with silver. He shook it again, to remove any more useless, negative thoughts. He was still a man in control of his own mind and would _not_ allow the memories to quell the quiet beauty of the summer afternoon.

He breathed deep, but the scars from that old burn, pulled across his chest, catching him with little hooks of pain. His eyes narrowed, and in his mind's eye he could see again the fire, the hostages and then the murderous opium runner.

In spite of his injuries at the time, Sherlock Holmes had won that battle. The burns had healed. The scars were just reminders of the many battles, which Sherlock Holmes fought.

The memories of his battles were sometimes dark and painful, but welcome nonetheless because they were almost always capped by his victories, the cerebral joy that came from solving the puzzle, finding the answer, _using his mind_, and sharing all that with his loyal companion and only friend.

He rubbed his hand over the rough scar tissue on his thigh; odd that this old war wound ached today…must be a change in the barometer. He should have to check his weather instruments back at the cottage. Certainly the breeze was picking up, but the wind was a welcome from the heated mid-summer sunshine.

As he kneaded his sore, scared thigh, he recalled the case- _The Case of the Missing Cipher_. Watson had so enjoyed his little flights of literary fancy. Holmes often scoffed at Watson's penchant for melodrama; the doctor just couldn't let the bare facts speak for them selves.

The old man frowned. He shouldn't have scoffed at his old friend _quite_ so often. '_If only I hadn't scoffed at Watson that morning…'_

But no. That memory was most unwelcome and hence to be ignored. He took out his pipe and tamped some fresh tobacco into the bowl.

As he went to strike the match, his right hand cramped, more specifically, his third and fourth fingers had locked-up again, the result of tendon damage which occurred one night when he fell, having overindulged in the opium. '_How many years did I have to battle that enemy?'_ mused Holmes.

The rail thin septuagenarian massaged his fingers, then his hand and wrist, just as his personal physician had instructed. The cramp receded as did the echo of a craving.

Holmes bent down to retrieve his fallen matches, knocking his beekeeper's hat into the grass. Irritated, he reached for the blasted hat, then gasped as a spasm of pain clutched his back.

He froze, bent over like a weathered tree, and he rode out both that pain and the memory it brought forth. His eyes clenched against the recollection of the Reichenbach Falls- the terrifying plunge into frigid water and the vicious strength of those waters, which threw him into the rocks, injuring his back. His back had never been quite right since then, prone to these unreasonable seizures that struck at the most inopportune times. Trust that brilliant but evil spider, James Moriarty to have left his mark on his old nemesis with an invisible, unpredictable and very painful war wound.

Still, the fall had been necessary. It had served to protect Watson. Holmes had risked his life for Watson more than once, valuing the good doctor more than anything else, yet when the doctor truly needed him that day…

Sherlock Holmes felt quite set upon. All his war wounds acting up at once. And all his memories conspiring against him, as if his mind were scarred along with his body. But no…No it wasn't his mind that was wounded, it was his heart. The heart he had hidden from everyone, except of course from his dear friend and companion, John Watson.

But then he scoffed at himself.

'_I am a foolish old man. Naturally, I regret that day. It does not mean that my heart is _wounded_ or _scarred_. Those are fanciful notions that I DO NOT subscribe to. I will not succumb to such sentimental nonsense.'_

He scourged the sentimental and very painful memories out of his mind. By force of will he slowly rose and turned toward his cottage driving away all thoughts of _that day_ and all the unwelcome emotional baggage that accompanied those memories.

As he approached the back of the cottage he noticed Watson's cane, burnished with time and use and still leaning uselessly against the wall. If only he hadn't argued with Watson… if only he had insisted that his cantankerous companion use his cane… If only he had not stayed all morning in the garden...

It was no use; the memories were stronger than an old man's denials, which shouldn't be such a surprise. After all, the memories reflected the truth. Perhaps it was time to acknowledge truth?

Because they _had_ argued (over the proper consistency of breakfast porridge , and the former soldier and doctor had stormed out of the house _without his cane_ to support him. And Sherlock had gone to the garden to sulk over watery porridge and to resent stubborn old men with bad tempers. And John Watson had fallen, alone and unnoticed. He had lain injured for hours, before Holmes went to look for him, finding him unconscious and in shock.

The local jawbone came at once. He and some neighbors took Watson away. And Sherlock Holmes was alone.

Holmes had gone to hospital one time to see Watson (Marion, their neighbor insisted on it). The once strong and vital soldier had been as pale as his snow-white hair. He had not awoken to smile or glare or scold his longtime companion. It was as if, Watson was already dead.

The former detective never returned to hospital. The younger Holmes had withstood his body's hurts, the older Holmes could bear the aches and pains of his scars…after all, his body was only transport. But the old man could not bear these newer wounds to his heart, caused by guilt and remorse and dreadful loneliness.

He stood bent; his once proud head sunk low to his chest, defeated by sentiment.

"Well, they said you were staying alone and fretting. I said that was poppycock. I said that the great Sherlock Holmes would never fret…"

"JOHN WATSON!" cried the detective. "I thought…I was certain…"

The former army soldier appeared as if by magic, looking like a phantom of his former self. Still much too pale. But he supported himself on two very mundane sticks, and he had a huge, white cast on his lower leg.

'_Fracture of the medial malleolus resulting from a twisting fall?_' considered Holmes.

Watson grinned, a ghost of his old smiles and he wavered just slightly on his ridiculous sticks. Holmes hastened forward, taking his old friend's arm to ensure that no further falls occurred-ever again.

"We must get you inside at once. I suppose the bed is the safest place…"

"Oh God! First I find you fretting, and now you want to coddle me?" asked Watson, his voice seemingly cheerful but not as strong as his friend would have liked. "I have just escaped from hospital; what I need is fresh air and sunshine."

"You need to sit."

"Now _that's_ a capital idea," said Watson with another smile. "I confess the leg is a bit painful, and I am a bit tired…I am especially tired of these damn crutches," he said, shaking one of his walking sticks irritably.

"Come along, doctor. You shall have my bee-watching bench," said Holmes eagerly. "And I will draw up my little firkin, which will support your leg and its enormous cast. You can sit and watch my bees."

"Well," said the doctor smiling happily. "This is quite the honor. I accept!" With his companion's assistance, Watson sat down on the rough wooden lawn chair, groaning softly as his foot was elevated on the small barrel which doubled as a table and a desk.

Watson leaned back wearily into the chair. Holmes stood near by, just in case he was needed.

The somnolent late afternoon was finally interrupted by Mr. Holmes. "My dear Watson, I believe I owe you…an…apology."

"Oh, an apology is it?" said Watson, looking at his friend with narrowed eyes. "What for?"

"For the porridge."

The pale former army doctor's jaw dropped. "For the what?"

"And for staying to long in the garden."

Watson shook his head in apparent disbelief. "That's...no. No..."

"And for forgetting your cane."

"Good God, I'm the fool who forgot to use his cane, not you!" blustered Watson, his voice louder, sounding much more like the former Captain Watson of old. "Have you been blaming yourself for my fall?"

"It is my fault. I fussed over the porridge and allowed you to leave the house without your cane…"

"Dammit, Holmes!" exclaimed Watson. "I fell over a small branch that was in my way. It was an accident. Had you not found me, things might have gone ill, but you did find me, and you summoned help, and here I am. Back home again and enjoying the sun on the poppies and the breeze in the meadow…"

"There are no poppies this time of year, Watson. The fields are mostly full of clover, which happily, the bees are drawn to. Still, I believe that I am glad that you are well-enough to spout your feeble attempts at poetry ."

"Oh I _have_ missed this," said Watson sarcastically.

"Did you. Well, I suppose I should have visited you more often..." said Sherlock, shifting uncomfortably.

"Yes, well one visit would have been nice. I was going to ask you about that," said Watson, fixing his friend with his steady gaze.

"Ask about what?" said Holmes feigning a sudden interest in the sky.

"Well, I did wonder. You not visiting. You not calling," said Watson. "but I understand now. You didn't visit me because you blamed yourself _and_ because you convinced yourself that I was dying. YOU!" here Watson shook his finger accusingly at Holmes. "You made deductions without all the facts and got everything quite wrong."

Watson looked very stern, except for his dancing eyes.

"Ah!" said Holmes sharply.

"Is your back bothering you, Holmes?" asked the doctor, instantly concerned.

"No," said the tall, bony scarecrow of a man. "It is not my back but rather my conscience. I do not think…that is…No, you are right... I very much regret that I allowed sentiment to cloud my judgment, Watson. I am, in fact, guilty of rushing to judgment without all the facts. I do apologize."

"Well!" cried Watson in astonishment.

"Perhaps," said Holmes, his withered old cheeks flushing in the late afternoon sun. "Perhaps we could agree not to discuss this…ah, my lapse."

"Mmmm," hummed the doctor. "I must assume that this lapse led to your fretting, and apparently you have been fretting all week-long. It seems to me that you have suffered quite enough. I shall agree not mention this lapse of yours, if…"

"If what," asked the former consulting detective.

"If you agree not to chide me for leaving the house without my cane," said Watson.

"My dear Watson, I would never have thought to mention it."

"Liar," said Watson.

"You wound me. You add yet another wound to my tally."

"Are we in agreement?"

"Yes, Watson," said Holmes. "But I reserve the right to remind you to use your cane or crutches should I see you forget them and you must agree never to leave me alone again."

"My dear Mr. Holmes," murmured the doctor. "You may remind me as needed, and I shall promise to try never to leave you alone again."

"Hmm, I suppose it must suffice. You will try very hard?"

"You are a ridiculous old man, Holmes. What say we retire to the house after all? Marion was good enough to leave us with a pot of soup and fresh baked bread, and I for one am famished, which means, I suppose, that you are starved."

"Nonsense. I seldom require food,"said Holmes, who now felt quite recovered from his old wounds, "Allow me to assist you, and as we walk back, _slowly_ and taking _great care _to avoid branches and other hindrances, I shall share some observations that I have made concerning the worker bees."

"Oh, I _have_ missed this," said Watson, as he leaned some of his weight into his dear friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**A/N**

I confess that this was a very challenging challenge. Hopefully, I didn't muck it up too badly.

Please let me know what you liked... what you didn't like…you know, just review? :D


	6. Making his List

This is the entry for December 18th in the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dark.

And here is today's prompt: '_Watson is ill and sends Holmes out with a shopping list for his Christmas presents. How does Holmes fare?'_

* * *

**Rated K+**

**Making his List...**

* * *

**A set of tea towels (four)(something festive?)**

**A book with pictures, suitable for a child of six or seven (boy)**

**A plush toy for child of five (girl)**

**Something for Inspector Lestrade (use your deductive skills)**

**Something for Stamford (use them again)**

**Something for Mrs. Hudson (something nice!)**

**A box of fine drawing pencils **

**A bottle of brandy or something similar**

**Try to keep the spending within reason.**

**My thanks, J. Watson**

Holmes looked at the list. He looked at the pathetic figure of J. Watson, buried under a hill of blankets.

"Are you sure you want me to leave you here, alone," asked Holmes uncertainly. "What if you require clean handkerchiefs, or tea, or your medcine or…"

"I am feeling much better. And I have…my bell, if I really need it," whispered Watson. The poor chap had completely lost his voice, could barely manage a whisper. At least the fevers were gone but Watson was still quite weak. "I know how much you hate…shopping, Holmes. But Christmas is upon us…"

"Stop nattering on, Watson," said Holmes. "Save your voice. I will not mind shopping this one time. I shall think of it as a case. I shall hunt down these items like clues." Holmes flashed his friend a rather toothy, predatory grin.

"Thank you…"

"I said to save your voice. I shall inform Hudson that I will be out at least until lunch," said the detective. His voice softened just a bit then, "And do try to get better, Watson. You are needed you know."

* * *

Holmes went immediately to his favorite store, **T. Kimmel, Tobacconist, **read the sign.

"Ah, Mr. Kimmel," said Holmes, after the banker, who was cheating on his wife, left the shop. "I thought perhaps you could expedite this little task I have here?" He handed the short, nearly bald man his list.

"Oh. Oh well. For Doctor Watson, is it?"

"Yes, yes, obviously. Why would I be looking for tea towels or a child's toy?" said Holmes, glancing at his pocket watch. "Well, what do you have here that fits the bill, Mr. Kimmel?"

"Well. Well, I dunno, Mr. Holmes I'm sure…Does this Inspector Lestrade like cigars?"

Holmes thought for a moment, Lestrade had nicotine stains around his fingers…more of a cigarette man…still, time was a wasting.

"I'm sure he will like cigars. I'm sure that Stamford will like cigars too. Not those! You read the note; we must be financially responsible Kimmel. Yes, those are quite good enough for the likes of Lestrade. Now what have you got for the others?"

"Does your Mrs. Hudson smoke?"

"Certainly not!"

"Errm, Candy?" said the tobacconist, wiping his hands on his long apron. "I have horehound candy?"

"Candy…" said Holmes. "Candy…Yes, women like candy. So do children! But no, he requires a book and a toy for the children and he has been remarkably short-tempered lately."

"Who has?"

"Watson of course. He's been very irascible, perhaps it due to the influenza and nearly dying from pneumonia."

"Dying from pneumonia?"

"Nearly dying, he is now recovering and making lists," said Holmes looking put out. One could not tell by looking that the famous detective had alternated between frantic agitation and catatonic despair during the worst of his companion's illness. "Now, I'll take that whole jar of candy," said the detective, indicating the two-foot glass display jar of sugar-coated horehound candy."

"What, all the candy?"

"And the jar too, of course. It is meant to be a gift! Please wrap the gifts so that they look…festive or something. I will return in not more than an hour…"

"But I only have brown paper and twine!" protested Mr. Kimmel.

"Exert yourself, my good man. It is for a good cause," said Holmes, slipping the man some extra coin.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Kimmel greatly mollified by many coins.

The tall detective walked around the small line that had formed behind him, and thence out to the street. This 'case' taking a bit longer than expected, thought Holmes as he checked his watch. Still, Watson must not be disappointed, after all he had nearly died of pneumonia.

* * *

"Well now, I do have an atlas; it has maps," said Mr. Oppenheimer diffidently.

"Maps are not pictures," said Holmes. "Surely you can see that."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes but…I carry scientific books and the occasional rare book…Oh, that reminds me. I have acquired an original treatise by Antoine Lavoisier. I put it by especially for you."

Holmes greedily (yet carefully) took the century old papers, his eyes appearing more predatory than ever, as he looked down the long beak of his nose.

He began reading the French treatise. Although he was fluent in French, it took nearly an hour to digest the paper, with its attendant graphs and diagrams. A very valuable find.

The detective rose from his seat on the bookseller's tall, wooden stool. "Yes, Mr. Oppenheimer, I _will_ take this fascinating treatise of course. Now, you've had plenty of time to find a picture book I think," said Holmes, checking his watch. He hid the surprise he felt on how late it was.

"I have located a book on snakes, Sir," said the tall, man with a longish mane of graying-blond hair. "Snakes of the Levant, to be precise. The book has many diagrams and drawings and there are ten colored plates, which means the book is a bit dear."

"Snakes? Boys like snakes, I believe," said Holmes, thumbing slowly through the book. "And it has pictures? Yes, a great many pictures…this is a rather fine drawing of the internal anatomy…Yes, this will do. Price is no object."

"But the note did say to keep the price within reason," said Oppenheimer, who was an honest man.

"Mmmm, not a problem. I've learned to ignore his cost-cutting measures. Wrap these up and I'll be back for them in about thirty minutes, I have one more stop to make, I think.

In fact it was several hours and three stops later before Holmes retraced his steps and headed back to Baker Street.

* * *

"What is going on here?" demanded Holmes angrily standing in the doorway of his lodging clutching his many awkward parcels.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hudson, turning around. Then she shrieked.

Watson leapt out of his chair and pushed his housekeeper behind him to protect her from…

"Dear Lord!" said Watson huskily. "What the devil is that?"

"You are strangely inconsistent, Watson," said Holmes with great exasperation. "First you call on your deity and then on the King of Hell…"

"You watch your language, young man!" said Mrs. Hudson primly.

"And you Mrs. Hudson, what do you mean letting Watson get up and gad about? Do you want him to relapse? Do you realize that he almost died of pneumonia?"

"I did _not _almost die. She did not l_et_ me up. I _chose_ to get up. And I am hardly gadding about. And I repeat…" said Watson, his voice raspy and soft, between coughs. "I repeat what is that thing? I think it is smiling at me."

"This is a stoat! A very fine example of the taxidermist's art. I got it for next to nothing from some gypsies. I am glad, however, that you approve of its expression-very life-like, I believe," said Holmes. "And you will note that it has very plush fur." Holmes stroked the back of the stuffed animal and smiled proudly.

Watson glanced again at the predatory leer on the stuffed-stoat's face. Watson would not have said that he _approved_ of the thing's expression-all sharp teeth under curled dark lips. It was rather frightening at first glance and after nearly two weeks abed, and the sudden excitement, and that animal leering at him...well, the whole thing made him rather dizzy.

"I need to sit down," muttered Watson, as he fell into his chair.

"Well, there's the proof that you shouldn't have let him get out of bed, Mrs. Hudson. Now I shall have to carry him back to his room…"

"Enough, Holmes!" whispered the doctor, which was meant to be a shout. "Do not accuse, Mrs. Hudson. She does not tell me when I can get up or not. And you certainly will not be carrying me anywhere. I would prefer to get back to the matter of the stoat and its plush coat."

"Fine. But first your legs must be well covered with this rug…like so... Mrs. Hudson, surely you were going to get this ill man some tea with plenty of lemon and honey?"

"Well, I…"

"I could use a spot of tea as well, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes. "I am quite parched from shopping all day long."

"You shopping?" asked the older woman in surprise.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. I do it all the time. Now tea? If you please."

She left the sitting room, muttering under her breath.

"There, she is gone for at least a few minutes," he whispered, leaning toward his friend conspiratorially. "Now, I can show you her present…well, I can't show you the actual present because it is well wrapped, with a festive decoration on top."

Watson looked at the very large, brown, cumbersome package, which had twine wrapped round and round and round it-with a large branch of browning evergreen tucked into the string on top.

"What…is it?"

"Candy."

"It is a lot of candy."

"Indeed. I have heard that women like candy. It is horehound, which is not only tasty but healthful as well."

"Horehound candy, really? And so much of it."

"And for Stamford and Lestrade cigars. They too have decorated boxes, but I think that they won't mind."

"I…but I didn't know Stamford smoked," said Watson.

"Of course he does. Everyone does," said Holmes, dismissing the uninteresting discussion about Stamford.

"Now, here is a great picture book, just as you requested. Oppenheimer did not wrap it properly. He only wrapped the newspaper around it, as if it were fish and chips. But no matter, this way I can show you…" said Holmes, unwrapping the book. "Oh! Here is something for me, a treatise by Lavoisier. I shall put it to the side to reread at my leisure. I plan to recreate his experiment. But back to the book. It is very fine. Only look at the detailed anatomical drawings, Watson. Look at this enlargement showing the fangs and the poison glands…"

"Yes, quite remarkable. It's really quite extraordinary," whispered Watson. "I wouldn't mind reading it, if that's all right with you…and look, colored plates…"

"I am glad you like it, and that you appreciate the color plates, but do you think it appropriate to read someone else's gift?"

"Oh!" squeaked Watson. He tried clearing his throat. "I am sorry. Of course, I would not read it if it is a gift for someone. I had thought that it was yours, for a case or…oh. oh." said the doctor softly. "Oh, I see it is…it is the picture book for Michael?"

"You did not say that it was for any Michael. You said a boy of six or seven. And this is a book with pictures of snakes, and of course, boys like snakes, so viola…"

"And that means…that means that the stoat, with the plush fur…is for Lizzy?"

"Well obviously, if she is a girl of five years. This is a plush toy for a girl of five."

Watson looked up with wide eyes "And the… brandy?"

"I did not buy spirits, at least not spirits for consumption. You see; I readily deduced that the purchase of brandy was for me, but I found some much better spirits to help us celebrate the holidays." He held up a clear glass jar of spirits in which something shaped rather like a succubus floated eerily.

"You better hide that before Mrs. Hudson sees it," advised the wise doctor in a shocked, breathless whisper.

"Too late," said Mrs. Hudson, who stood in the doorway with a tray.

"You were unusually quick, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, hiding the succubus behind his back.

"I had already put the kettle on to boil, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson as she set down the tray.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," whispered the former army doctor. "I say, look at these…well, the stoat... and this book. They are for Mrs. Bridges' children." Watson giggled a trifle hysterically, earning himself strange glances from both the detective and the housekeeper.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I'm afraid dinner will be late, gentlemen, because I shall have to run out to the stores before they close."

"Really?" asked Holmes, helping himself to hot toast.

"Yes. I can see that the good doctor is quite taken with the…the stoat and that book. It is clear that he will not want to part with them," said the good woman. "So I will just run over to McClatchy's and get some oranges…and I think that they have a few games and toys. If not, I can buy the children some peppermints and crackers."

Watson breathed a sigh of relief, and he looked up gratefully at his housekeeper.

"Really?" asked Holmes again. "Watson, you really are that enamored of this stoat? Well, you did admire its expression straight off." The detective thought about it for a moment. "Well, seeing as how you nearly died from pneumonia, I expect that we should indulge you. You may certainly keep the stoat and the book."

Watson smiled weakly. "Thank you. But, Holmes, did you happen to buy the tea towels and the pencils?"

"No and yes," said Holmes, who handed his friend a cup of tea. "Instead of tea towels, the gypsies persuaded me to buy this bag of useful kitchen rags. Much more practical for housekeeping. The pencils are here, tied together with this colorful string."

"Mrs. Hudson?" croaked John.

"I shall buy many oranges and perhaps some…chocolate?"

"Yes. Yes, that would be splendid, Mrs. Hudson. Buy yourself a box of chocolates too, please," said Watson.

"Why would I buy myself…Oh," she said. "Yes, well… I shan't be gone too long. Anything else?"

"Please make it three boxes of chocolates, just in case. And lots of oranges," rasped the doctor. "I'll just get some money…"

"Sit down, Watson. You nearly passed out the last time you stood!" snapped Holmes. Watson glanced furtively at the vicious looking stoat, which had been the primary cause of his light-headedness "I will float you a loan," said the great detective, handing a wad of money to Mrs. Hudson, with a knowing wink. "Had I known that Watson was craving oranges and chocolates, I would have purchased some for him," He paused, deep in thought. "You know, Mrs. Hudson, it is getting quite late, do you wish me to accompany you? I find I am quite good at shopping."

"Oh no, I shall be just fine," said the older woman, quickly scribbling herself a list.

"Ah, Holmes…don't you think you should stay here with me?" asked Watson. "What if I…felt dizzy again?"

"That is true…"

"I'll be fine, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson holding a new shopping list. "You can stay and entertain the doctor."

She retreated quickly, closing the door behind her.

"Entertain you? Hmmm," said the consulting detective, "I know just the thing to entertain you, Watson, the specimen. Just look at this! You will never guess what is in this jar." He held aloft the jar, which contained the strangely humanoid creature. It too leered at Watson, just like the stoat had. Holmes smiled happily first at his specimen and next at his friend.

His friend returned the smile, trying not to let the sad preserved thing unnerve him. He never did guess what it was.

* * *

Please review :D

A/N This is my offering for the 18th. Sadly, I was behind on my writing and had to temporarily skip over the prompt for the 17th. That prompt will be filled as soon as possible. I pinkie promise.

Horehound candy-a dark-brown hard candy with a fairly unpleasant bitter taste (unpleasant to many but not all people). Often used as cough drops.


	7. Do you believe in magic?

This is the entry for December 19th in the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dark.

The prompt is from Madam'zelleGiry: '_Do you believe in magic?_

**Rated T-for angst and implied suicidal ideation. This is a fluff-free fic.**

**Do You Believe in Magic?**

John sat in his empty house. The fire had all but gone out, and the room was dark and cold. He was dark and cold. He had been dark and cold for quite some time now, months probably.

He narrowed his eyes as he coolly studied the choices before him. The rather generous tumbler of whiskey to the right or the gun to the left, both of them gleamed beckoningly in the feeble light of the sputtering candle.

Which would he choose tonight? The whiskey? Or the gun?

Who did he miss more tonight? Mary or Holmes? His wife or the brother of his heart? DID IT MATTER? They were both gone. GONE. The world was cold and dark, all of the time. And he was cold and dark, and always, always alone.

* * *

There was a disturbance, shouting and the sound of bins falling, breaking glass. Probably drunks, interrupting his nightly ritual. The doctor heard men laughing raucously, rudely, cruelly…and someone cried out in protest, their voice thin and querulous. They sounded so...helpless, so alone.

Without another thought, John Watson ran to the front of his small, empty house and threw open the door.

A gas street lamp illuminated a gang of drunken youths, probably from the University. The pack had cornered an old man, who looked to be near tears, cringing in his tattered rags. They sounded and acted like hyenas, and had taken the old man's sack and dumped the contents on the ground. Despite his truly desperate pleas, they toyed with the old rags and broken bits (It looked like trash to Watson, but seemingly, these were the treasured mementos of this man's life).

And it didn't matter what they were. They belonged to the old man. And these boys were very cruel. It had to stop.

"You there, be off! Leave him be!" shouted Watson, charging down the steps with his cane raised.

The ruffians laughed, sounding for all the world like those hyenas, which Watson had heard on safari, so many years ago. He hadn't much liked them then. He didn't like them now. "An' who's gonna make us stop, old man? _You_?" they laughed, between their braying laughter.

"Yes," said Watson. "This is your chance to run. I would run now, if I were you."

* * *

They did run with their tails between their legs, but only after he was forced to chastise them. He was fairly certain that they sustained a broken arm, two broken noses and a great many bruised egos.

John Watson (a bit battered himself, but nothing new, nothing serious) helped the elderly man collect his belongings, a broken cup, some old and sadly tattered photos, a book, a shoe (only one shoe? The doctor now suspected that the man was a bit soft in the head.) A shirt or two, a baby's rattle, a bottle (empty) and various other things. The flotsam and jetsam of a life on the rocks-the former soldier suspected that he might be looking at his future. Very soon, all the man's treasures were stuffed back into his bag.

Watson led the man, back to his house, murmuring encouragement. It was cold and dark; come inside to warm up. Was the gentleman injured? And surely the gentleman would be better for a cup of hot tea and some toast or perhaps even some toasted cheese?

Watson built up the fire. As the room warmed, the pungent aroma of a man who had not washed in a very long time pervaded the kitchen. The doctor had smelled worse, but he'd smelled far better too. He ignored it, just as the gentleman with long, greasy, iron-grey hair ignored the gun and the tumbler sitting on the table. Men like the two of them knew enough to respect one another's secrets.

Watson made hot, strong tea and fed the man an impromptu supper, eating himself for the first time that day, more to be polite than due to any hunger.

The old man, who called himself Raphael, was not talkative but that was fine. Watson was not very talkative either.

They finished their second cups of tea, and John studied Raphael (whose real name was undoubtedly Ralph or Ed or Rob, thought John with an inward smile). The man gave no surname.

"Look, Raphael," said the doctor, "it's a very cold night, perhaps you'd like to sleep here, by the fire…or there is a guest room. I could…"

"Oh No... no, no, no," said Raphael. "I am traveling. I must keep moving, but I am very grateful for the offer."

"And this traveling couldn't wait until daylight?" asked John.

"No, I'm afraid not," said Raphael. "You are a kind man and a brave one. This is not the first time you have given aid to the homeless. They speak about you, Doctor, I have heard them."

"Oh well, as you said, I am a doctor. I do what I can…"

"Yes, and now I shall do what I can," said Raphael. "We shall make a trade."

"A trade is it?" said Watson, his lips twitching in an outward smile. This Raphael must be a flim-flam man, the rascal!

"Yes, I will take that candle stick and give you this," the man stuck his hand into his bag and pulled out a cracked snowglobe.

Watson stared at the candle stick. It was pewter, so not valuable. It had been a wedding gift and so it held memories…but then John Watson had a whole house full of mementos, all of which he assiduously ignored. He could not bear to be reminded of either of _them_.

Besides, if it would make the old gentleman happy, why not?

"Very well, I accept your offer," Watson handed over his candle stick.

Raphael put the snow globe into Watson's hand, enclosing hand and the globe with both of his gnarled old hands.

"Accept my gift, Doctor with my blessing, may you find the strength to hold out, may you find the strength to hope-just a little," said the old man gravely, his glance falling at last on the gun and the drink.

John Watson blinked. He wondered at the odd benediction. Had Raphael once been a cleric? But the old man had gathered his battered sack, and was walking to the door.

"Wait, Raphael, are you sure you have to leave now? It's snowing and…"

"And I'll be fine," said the old man, a smile lit up his craggy face. "And you'll be fine too, Doctor. Only wait...just a bit longer."

* * *

John Watson sat alone again in the empty kitchen; at least it was warm in here. The rest of the house was too cold and too empty. He might sleep here again; he often slept here now. He pulled a worn blanket around his shoulders (a blanket he had taken from their Baker Street lodgings). Then he looked at Raphael's gift. The glass had cracked, but the water hadn't leaked out.

He turned the globe upside down and then right side up, watching the trapped 'snow flakes' fall down on a tiny alpine village. "Greetings from Switzerland" it said on the base of the globe. How odd; he wondered how old Raphael acquired someone's old souvenir. John shook the globe again and again, bemused by the snow falling on the hills and mountains, which so reminded him of Reichenbach..

* * *

He woke with a start, it was very early morning. There was just a bit of light in the sky, threatening to drive away the dark. The kitchen was still warm, and now it wasn't quite so dark either.

He rubbed his stubbled face. He had dreamt…well he always had dreams, usually he had nightmares.

He picked up his gun, removing the rounds and placing gun and bullets in a tin-for now. The whiskey had not been drunk, which was a first. He tossed the liquor down the sink, built up the fire and started boiling water for his tea, before dropping into his chair again.

Last night was different, he thought, because the dreams were lovely not awful. He remembered seeing Mary and she smiled. And he'd had dreams about Holmes too. He couldn't really remember the details, but Holmes had definitely told him to do something. But what.

Well, it was just a dream; what did it matter? He waited for the hopelessness to descend upon him, but it held off-for now.

He drank his tea and nibbled on some dry toast. Maybe he should buy some jam. He used to enjoy eating jam on his toast. Since it was Christmas morning, the doctor had no patients waiting on him. He thought he might take a walk down near the docks, where there were sad, run-down lodgings and places where the homeless took refuge.

Down there, he would often run into some of Holmes's old irregulars. They would give him the news and, more importantly, they would direct him to those in need of his services. And he would give them some coins. A fair trade.

And thinking about trades…he looked over at the battered snow globe, he raised it and shook it to make it snow on the village again.

And like magic, he remembered. In the dream, Holmes had said that things would get better. Holmes had told him to wait for him, because their work was not finished. How odd. How could he and Holmes carry on with the work?

It was silly. It was just a dream, but still it gave him the courage to go on just a bit longer. It gave him hope to hold on to... for at least a bit longer.

* * *

Epilogue

Holmes walked down a busy street in Stockholm, heading to another meeting that might lead him to another associate of that spider, Moriarty.

The one-time detective buried his cold hands deep in his pockets, and felt the cold, hard candle stick that the unkempt young man had given him in trade for his penknife.

Why that homeless wretch had wanted the broken penknife, was a mystery even Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve.

His hand tightened on the candle stick, the candle stick reminded him of Watson, no doubt due to the 'W' engraved on it.

This no doubt, accounted for that dream he had last night. In the dream. his old friend (his only friend) Watson had looked thin and drawn, as if he had been sufferinga long time. In the dream, Watson had asked him to come home. It had hurt to see his friend like that and to hear his friend asking for him…only to be denied again. He had given dream-Watson some excuses, but then had reassured him, telling the doctor to be patient, telling his doctor that he would soon be coming back home.

Silly really. Just ridiculous sentiment.

Still, the detective moved with renewed purpose, because he had made a promise to Watson in that dream, and now he felt that he had to keep it. He had to finish this lonely hunt and return home—and he had to do it soon, because he worried (more sentiment) that John Watson would not be able to wait much longer.

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	8. Ring Bearer

This is the entry for December 20th, in the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness, hosted by Hades Lord of the Dark.

The prompt was '_One ring', _suggested by W. Y. Traveller. (Please note: To my mind, 'One Ring' can only mean The One Ring, and that generally leads to Tolkienesque madness. Therefore be aware that what follows is mad and a bit crackish… )

**Rated T-just in case **

**Ring Bearer**

John Watson ran. In the dark he ran, chased by some horrid, nightmarish creature with swollen, glowing eyes and sharp teeth.

He had awoken in the dark, in some chill, dank cavern with a huge sunken lake. It reminded him of the legendary River Styx. But instead of Charon, he met with the little wizened creature, who owned the glowing eyes.

Watson used an alias when they began their conversation, introducing himself as Baggins (a fellow soldier's name, from when he was stationed in Afghanistan.) Then they had played a riddle game. Watson was secretly proud of his cleverness with felt that Holmes would have been proud too. Really, Watson had out-done himself…

But it had all gone to hell-in-a-hand-basket when he touched the cold, hard ring, which had mysteriously appeared in his waistcoat pocket, and he had stupidly asked aloud, "What have I got in my pocket?"

Holmes would surely chide him for speaking so unguardedly, especially when faced with a fiend, which intimated that it wanted to eat Watson for supper.

The result was an attack by the creature. Watson had retreated, leading the thing on a mad chase through the maze of caverns and tunnels.

The creature, whom the doctor dubbed Gollum, based on the horrid choking, swallowing sound it mad, had nearly caught him as he stuck in a narrow crack. He had struggle free just in time, at the price of losing several brass buttons off his once fine waistcoat.

But wait, Doctor John Watson didn't own a waistcoat with brass buttons.

At this point, Watson was sure he was dreaming. He tried to force himself to wake up, but such a release eluded him. Instead he was forced to keep running.

Finally he saw a dim light, which grew brighter; was this the exit? But he dared not run for it, because somehow the Gollum creature had gotten between him and the source of light.

Suddenly, he saw his friends dash past, coming from a side tunnel and heading toward the light...without him. Well, when he said friends…but did he know that very tall old man and those short fierce dwarves? Well, yes he did. That was the company of Thorin Oakenshield and the tall man was not a man, but a wizard.

This was ridiculous. First of all there were no such things as wizards. Second of all, how could dwarves be taller than John Watson, a man of average height and build?

And third, there was no time for a third thought. He felt he must take the chance of running past that Gollum, who looked right past Watson, as if the man were invisible.

Wait…what if he _was_ invisible? Gollum had acted as if he couldn't see Baggins/Watson ever since he put the ring on…

The former soldier had to chance it. He had to rejoin his friends. Screwing up his courage; Watson ran, leaping over the head of Gollum and scrambling through the door and into a forest, bright with the evening sun.

He ran into the woods, following the retreating sounds of his friends, as Gollum shrieked curses at him, "Thief! Baggins! We hates it. We hates it. We hates it forever!"

* * *

Watson found his friends. At first they seemed suspicious of his absence and sudden (miraculous) reappearance. Then they seemed a bit perturbed by a change in his behavior, perhaps because he asked to be called Watson instead of Baggins.

They were, however, very appreciative when Watson rescued Thorin form the horrid goblins and giant wolf-like wargs. All was forgotten and forgiven after that. Soon, only Gandalf, the wizard remembered that he was anything other than a hobbit named Bilbo Baggins. Indeed, Watson himself began to forget that he wasn't really a Hobbit with large, furry feet.

And since the dream never seemed to end, he continued to act the part of Bilbo...fighting with giant spiders, outsmarting Elves and floating down a raging river in barrels. It was all terrifying and frightening and terribly exciting, and he felt that he'd like to tell his good friend about it all…but he just could not recollect the man's name.

* * *

He really should have tried harder to remember that man's name. He probably should have tried harder to leave this adventure. He definitely shouldn't be here, under the Mountain, hiding from a dragon, who was going to eat him.

This was probably another one of those times when self-introspection was ill-advised. He should probably answer the dragon, who sounded so much like his old friend, whatever his name was…The thing to remember was that the dragon wanted to eat him, right?

"I did not come to steal from you, O Smaug the Unassessably Wealthy," said the hobbit. "I merely wanted to gaze upon your magnificence, to see if you were as great as the old tales say. I did not believe them."

The terrifying dragon drew itself up, saying in a voice like thunder, "And do you, NOW?"

Baggins wanted to be home in his burrow. Better yet, he wanted to be back in his comfortable lodgings at…at…at the Baker's. He really needed to answer the dragon, "Truly the songs and tales fall utterly short of your enormity, O Smaug the Stupendous…"

"Do you think that flattery will keep you alive?"

Oh no, nothing would keep him alive now; he was going to be toasted and eaten. "No, no…" Baggins stuttered.

"No indeed!" roared the dragon. "Nor will that false enchantment."

"Enchantment?" asked Bilbo confused. "What enchantment?'

"You are not who you say you are, thief!"

"I'm... I'm not?" This was truly confusing, because if he wasn't actually a hobbit, who was he meant to be?

The dragon's glowing eye drew close. The dragon opened his mouth, and then the world went black.

* * *

He cautiously opened first one eye, and then the other. The dragon was gone. The dragon hoard was gone. Erebor was gone, all of which was good. However the place in which he now he found himself was strange.

"Is…is that a skull?" he asked looking at the skull perched on the mantle.

A tall thin man gazed at him with laser like eyes. "Yes. It was a friend, when I say friend…"

"Ermm," said Watson, struggling to sit up. This was clearly an evil wizard or magician; after all, he collected skulls.

"Ermm," repeated Watson, standing. He was rather shorter than the evil skull collecting wizard. "Are you going to try to eat me too?"

"I am not sure that the spell of restoration was effective," said the tall, rather exotic looking man. He was speaking to another tall man, who glared down his nose at Watson.

Having been a hobbit for so many months, Watson was well used to being the shortest man…well, shortest being, in the room. He had never let that dampen his courage though. He straightened his shoulders and stuck out his chin belligerently.

"Perhaps not. He does not look very impressive," said the other man, looking at Watson with obvious distaste. "We wanted the ring-bearer, not this simple-minded soldier."

Having been a modest and humble hobbit, Watson did not feel the need to respond to petty insults. Anyway, that last bit reminded him about the ring. He needed to find his ring.

He wanted to check his pockets, but his clothes had changed, rather drastically. They now consisted of an outlandish knitted jumper and some tight blue trousers.

Still, he needed to find IT. He felt around his strange costume, until he found some pockets in his trousers.

Ah, it was there. He still had the precious ring. And attached to his belt, he had a rather long dagger in its sheath. Things were looking up; he still had Sting then. It looked a bit smaller, but then he thought that maybe he was a bit bigger than he had been as a hobbit, which was very strange indeed.

He pulled the dagger free, and felt a bit of relief when the edges didn't glow blue. At least there were not goblins about.

"I can see that you are endowed with the bravery of a soldier, " asked the more arrogant and taller of the two men. "Bravery is by far the kindest name for stupidity, don't you think?"

Watson tightened his grip on Sting. Perhaps he was stupidly brave, but perhaps he could battle his way out of here. After all, there were only two of them, and he was a hobbit...or a man...or someone who had fought and survived a bloody war in Afghanistan, someone who had battled spiders and goblins and someone who had talked to a dragon and lived. He raised Sting and glared fiercely.

The younger man's icy blue eyes glinted with recognition and something else…

"This man is mine," said the junior wizard cryptically.

"Pardon me?" said the older man.

"This man. This is indeed John Watson in a different form; he is mine. He was always mine. You may leave us, brother," said the younger man. "John and I have a great deal to discuss."

"Do you, Sherlock?" asked the man called Mycroft.

"Do we?" asked the man called John Watson (when he wasn't called Baggins).

"Yes," said the man who was apparently named Sherlock, which sounded awfully familiar. "Now go away, Mycroft. If you do not annoy me too much, I may even help you to keep the One Ring away from Moriarty."

The Mycroft man nodded at the Sherlock person, and left, after giving Watson a last appraising look.

"Sit down, Watson," said Sherlock, dropping into a chair.

"Why should I?" asked Watson.

"Lets see…" said Sherlock, in a rather irritating voice. "Because you are tired from inter-dimensional time travel. Because you are full of questions that only I can answer. Because you are meant to follow my directions. We are meant to be as one. You are the ring-bearer and I am your advisor and companion."

"I don't understand," said the man who used to be a hobbit.

"And now we are finally reunited."

"I still don't understand," said the man who thought that John Watson could work as his name.

"Hmm, perhaps we should emblazon that on a tee shirt," said the man called Sherlock.

"What's a tea-shirt?"

"Do you not have more pressing questions?" asked Sherlock.

"Mmmm, are you going to eat me?" asked Watson, with a worry line deepening between his brows.

"Ah…no."

"Are you a wizard?"

"I have certain magical abilities."

"Are you related to…any…, um, dragons?"

"Nooo..."

"You sound like a dragon that I met," continued Watson.

"Mere coincidence," suggested Sherlock, unconvincingly.

"When you said that we were meant to be as one…did you mean…?"

"Yes."

"Oh dear."

"Don't look so concerned. That can wait till later, and I am sure you will be…not displeased in any case. Now, I would like you to stop playing with that ring. It is not a toy."

Watson widened his eyes in fake innocence, as if to say 'Ring, what ring?'

"You cannot hide things from me. Please take it out of your pocket and put it back on the chain where it belongs," said Sherlock, holding out a mithril chain. "Put the ring on the chain, and then place the chain around your neck."

"All right," said Watson, his face wrinkling in confusion. Still, he found himself trusting this man, which was unusual since he pretty much didn't trust anyone. So he followed Sherlock's advice, placing ring on the chain and slipping in around his neck.

Sherlock leaned forward his keen eyes intent, just like Smaug's. "John, please promise me that you will not play with the One Ring anymore. You have no idea how long it took me to find you this time."

Then the Sherlock-man took Watson's hand for the first time in an age, and Watson blinked but did not pull away.

"Would you like some tea?" asked Sherlock.

"I thought you'd never ask," said Watson smiling at last. After all, the lodgings could be quite nice, if they were cleaned up a bit. And Sherlock wasn't going to eat him...

* * *

A/N Okay. I don't know how that happened. I blame the madness on the One Ring.


	9. The Caroler

This story is based on a prompt from Wordwielder; the prompt is '_caroling_'.

**Rating K+**

**The Caroler**

Watson awoke to the sound of a violin. This was nothing new, the madman that he shared his lodgings with, frequently played the violin at all hours. The madman didn't care about anyone else, only his own comfort.

That madman, Holmes, certainly didn't care if his best friend was able to sleep. He didn't care about his friend at all. So what if John Watson had wanted to celebrate a real Christmas for the first time in years, for the first time since Mary's death.

The good doctor sighed. He really didn't understand why he missed Mary more at the holidays.

He certainly couldn't explain his urge to decorate their lodgings with just _a little_ greenery or his desire buy just _a few_ festive presents or his longing to plan a _small_ but tasty holiday repast.

And he really didn't understand why he had wanted to caroling this year. John Watson was not an accomplished musician or singer. He could barely hold a tune, but when he'd been invited to join some of the neighbors to go caroling, he'd said yes.

And Watson had looked forward to caroling, until Sherlock Holmes dragged him out for a pointless all-day hunt for what Watson had _thought_ was a thief or smuggler.

It turned out to be a hunt for Marvin Madison, a man who sold curiosities and memorabilia.

Watson had missed the opportunity to celebrate the season with men and women of good will, in order to help Holmes find, purchase and bring back to Baker Street a large box full of bones. The bones of a Mandrill, (recently deceased and a former resident of Mr. _private zoological park.)

Yes, the bones of some poor ape* were more important than the happiness and well-being of one, former army doctor.

Well, so be it. Christmas was here. Forget the greenery and songs. Forget the plum pudding, the presents, the holiday songs…

Wait! Was that Adeste Fideles? Was Holmes playing Adeste Fideles on his violin? Was this some kind of joke? Was this a _taunt_, a way to ridicule John Watson for his '_fatuous longing for the imaginary comfort of an empty religion'_. Was this another reminder about Holmes's current idol, Marx and his stupid 'religion is the opiate of the masses'*. And Holmes didn't even like Marx or his writings. Yet he threw that quote and a few other remarks in Watson's face.

Just as Holmes now threw Christmas carols mockingly into the doctor's face.

This was not to be borne!

Watson leapt out of bed and shoved his arms into his practical brown dressing gown. He burst into their shared parlor, where Holmes swayed, now playing I Saw Three Ships.

"What do you mean by this!" demanded Watson.

"Merry Christmas, Watson," said Holmes mildly.

Watson forgot to question this suspicious greeting because he was staring at the droopy evergreens, which now decorated the mantel and their breakfast table.

"There are pine needles all over the floor," said Watson, bringing up the topic of evergreens obliquely.

"Mmm," hummed Holmes.

"There is a package at my place," observed Watson.

"Well spotted, Watson. We shall make a detective out of you yet," said Holmes.

"What is it?" asked the former army doctor.

"Doctor," said Holmes, stopping his bowing. "As usual, you see, but you do not observe."

Watson wrinkled his nose in confusion.

Holmes sighed, "I believe it is known as a _present_.'Holmes began playing the carol again.

"Is it a Christmas present?" asked Watson.

"Is today December the 25th?"

"For me?" asked Watson doubtfully.

"Apparently. I do wish you wouldn't ask inane questions, Watson, even on December the 25th," said Holmes as he switched to God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.  
"Is it from _you_?" asked Watson, eyeing the parcel warily.

"Yes, yes, yes. Could we get on with the traditional…Watson! Where are you going?" yelled the consulting detective.

Within a minute the doctor was back, carrying three packages and placing them on the table at Holmes traditional spot. Then the doctor dropped into his favorite chair, nodding in time to the music.

As the carol ended, Watson asked, "How long will you be able to tolerate the carols and other tedious Christmas traditions?"

"For you dear doctor, I shall be able to play several more carols, followed by a festive holiday breakfast, put on by Mrs. Hudson, and accompanied by the exchange of gifts. I estimate that I can do all of this in less than thirty minutes but can tolerate the festive gaiety for no more that ninety minutes."

"I see," said Watson gravely. "Then please continue with your serenade. I do not wish to squander my thirty to ninety minutes of imaginary religious comforts."

"Watson!" the music stopped. Holmes may well have blushed, faintly. "I…I somewhat regret…last night, my choice of words was perhaps unfortunate. I truly regret my reference to Marx, who as you well know, I generally disparage. "

"As I regret my disparaging remarks as to the mandrill's paternity."

The detective's lip twitched into an almost smile. Watson grinned broadly.

"Perhaps you will choose to sing?" asked the detective.

"No," said Watson emphatically. "I never sing alone, nor would I mar the beauty of your violin's voice with my own."

For the next thirty to ninety minutes, Watson ignored the messy pine needles and the partially constructed skeleton of the unfortunate mandrill, basking in the glow of the fire, the beauty of the music and the presence of a true and caring friend.

A/N

*A mandrill is a baboon-like monkey, not an ape. However popular older writings often use the words monkey and ape interchangeably.

*Karl Marx wrote, 'religion is the opiate of the masses.'

Note: This has fewer than 1000words. :D


	10. Uncomfortable Silences

The prompt for today, December 22nd is, '_uncomfortable silences' _suggested by Catherine Spark.

**Rated K+**

**Uncomfortable Silences**

Silence congealed in the room. The only sound was the tick-tocking of the ornate longcase clock, as it measured out the moments of his torture.

Watson was a former soldier and officer. He was no stranger to suffering, but this…this was dreadful. He cast his eyes over to Holmes who stared resolutely out the window.

The sharp clank of a metal instrument cut sharply through the hush.

Watson looked and his eyes widened with sudden concern, and he wondered, '_What now?' _

The innocent-seeming older man toyed with a mechanical gadget, working a gears back and forth, brandishing the pinchers at the end like a giant macabre crab.

'_What could he possibly want with that THING?' _worried Doctor Watson, trying to show no fear. The others fixed their all-too-bright eyes on him, as if they knew. They probably did.

'_They can probably sense my fear.'_

Watson tried to admire the strange so-called Christmas tree decorated with gears and levers and metallic blossoms. This was dreadful, truly dreadful, and yet he had vowed not to shirk his duty.

Watson inclined his head minutely listening to the great clock, which quantified the hours of his suffering.

"Are you a student of clocks, doctor?" said the older, nearly white-haired man.

Watson was frankly startled when the man addressed directly. Holmes had instructed his companion to answer only when directly questioned, but that wasn't a question.

'_Should I even respond?_' wondered the frantic doctor. He the detective a desperate glance, and the great man nodded ever so slightly.

"Yes," Watson said, bravely but cautiously. "I like…" Holmes frowned. "That is… I find... clocks... useful?"

Holmes rolled his eyes in disgust, then stuck out his legs and stared at the ceiling. Evidently, that was _not_ the correct answer, and Doctor Watson's spirits began to wilt. Perhaps his answer would be used against him.

The room plunged once more into uncomfortable but increasingly familiar silence.

Then the weird contraption was held aloft again. Watson fixed his eyes fixed on the shining gears.

The old man extended the daunting instrument into the fire. Sweat began to gather on the doctor's brow.

Suddenly, the mechanical gears whirred, and old devil swung the claw towards the former soldier's face. The hot tongs came to an abrupt stop just inches from his eyes. Heat shimmered off the device and Doctor Watson had no idea of what to do next.

"Oh for God's sake!" growled Sherlock Holmes. "_He_ won't take no for an answer, Watson! You must hold out your hand! It won't hurt!"

"Oh, yes it will!" said the older woman darkly.

Watson frowned.

"Give him a plate," demanded the matriarch.

With a massive bellows-like sigh, Sherlock Holmes handed the good doctor a fine china plate. The tongs released a toasted crumpet onto Watson's plate.

"Good catch, Doctor," said the Holmes patriarch with a bright smile. The contraption hummed as it was retracted, spun about and then extended back into the fireplace. Almost immediately, another crumpet was extracted and swung out again. This time handing the toasted treat to Sherlock Holmes.

"Observe, Watson! Not. That. Hot," said Holmes as he bit into the toasted crumpet victoriously, dropping crumbs all over his second best suit.

The uncomfortable silence seemed destined to return, when Mrs. Holmes asked Watson if he wanted tea. Watson could not recall his instructions regarding the taking of tea, and he turned helplessly toward his best friend, who sighed yet again.

"Yes, of course he wants tea, Mummy," said Holmes. "After all, supposedly. we came here for tea, and he has not had any tea." then Sherlock Holmes murmured to no one in particular, "He becomes irritable without tea"

"I see that your manners have improved, son," said the Holmes matriarch approvingly.

Watson shot an incredulous look at the woman. Surely she wasn't serious? Holmes? With his long legs stuck out like hockey sticks, his nose stuck up in the air, dropping greasy crumbs all over...displaying improved manners?

This was lunacy. Despite his friend's warnings, he had come unprepared for the Christmas festivities. Only his high regard for Holmes (and the fact that the great man had said please for only the third time in Watson's memory), kept Watson from pleading a headache, to escape this Christmas with the Holmes family.

Once the tea and crumpets were served, the room became painfully silent again. The clock continued to meter out Watson's stay in this Yule-tide purgatory.

'Maybe _we can return to Baker Street soon?_' thought Watson hopefully.

His eye caught a gleam from Holmes, who, having read the doctor's mind, nodded minutely.

'_Oh yes, we can go home soon_…' thought the good doctor with relief. He thought of the comfortable quiet of their peaceful lodgings, which was more fantasy than realtity, given his companion's tendency to experiment with explosives, but never mind that right now. '_Home...'_

Another device began squeaking, like a mechanical mouse. A small basket, suspended on a pulley line, darted out from a shuttered opening, flew across the room, and stopped in front of Mrs. Holmes. She extracted a note.

"How nice. Mycroft will be joining us _all_ for dinner. We can have more pleasant conversation," said the matriarch into the stillness.

"Perhaps Dr. Watson will divulge more about his fascination with clocks," said Mr. Holmes senior cryptically.

"Indeed," said the matriarch. "He can tell us about his pocket watch. I observed that it was a gift, probably from his brother."

'_Ah, well_,' thought Watson, courageously hiding his disappointment, '_dinner can't be that bad_...'

Sadly, the thunderous look on his silent friend said otherwise.

* * *

A/N FanFic has mysteriously removed their spellcheck feature...or hidden it. If you see errors, please let me know. I also love reviews :D


	11. A Surprise

The prompt was :'_Holmes and Watson have to visit Madam Tussauds' . _The prompt was from W.Y. Traveller.

**Rated K+**

**A Surprise**

* * *

"Well, I don't understand this at all," I muttered. "Why did we come here, if you won't let me look at the exhibits?" First Holmes surprised me with the offer of a visit to Madam Tussauds, then he hurried me through the halls, not letting me stop to see anything.

"Don't be tiresome, Watson," said Holmes. "We shall see the best part of the exhibit. I intend to visit the Chamber of Horrors. I'm sure you will find it diverting."

"Mmm," I murmured. I had seen enough real horrors over my life and was not certain that I wished to see the death masks of infamous murderers or the gruesome recreations of their crimes. "But, Holmes, can we not at least see Madame du Barry or Marie Antoinette or …"

"Oh bother you and your endless line of women!"

"I'm not talking about women; I am talking about wax figures," I said, following the consulting detective. "Marie Antoinette is dead…"

"Yes, yes of course she's dead. But will you just come along old man," said Holmes who seemed oddly excited, considering that he was between cases.

I briefly wondered if he had gone back to his bad _habits_, but no, I'd seen him intoxicated before. No the man was simply excited, as if he were on a fascinating case. Unable to solve this mystery without further data (Holmes was rubbing of on me), I shrugged and shouldered past a knot of men, by-passing many no-doubt fascinating displays.

I _nearly_ saw the figure of Lord Admiral Nelson and caught an actual glimpse of Sir Walter Scott.

We approached the Chamber of Horrors and found it roped off, with signage claiming that the exhibit would be closed for the rest of today.

"Well, this is too bad," I said. "I'm very sorry Holmes; the exhibit is closed…Whatever are you doing?" I asked, as the detective walked around the velvet covered rope barrier and let himself into the darkened Chamber of Horrors.

I looked over my shoulder, no one seemed to have taken notice of Holmes's illicit entry, aside from a bright-eyed little girl, who now stared at me. I winked at her and followed after my friend, hoping the child would not alert a guard.

The so-called Chamber was quite dark, only illuminated by a few dim gas lights. Here were the wax figures of some of England's most infamous criminals: Doctor Palmer, Mary Ann Cotton, Burke and Hart. There were even some non-criminals such as the famous hangman, William Marwood, who devised the long-drop. I shuddered the very idea of hanging and moved quickly along looking for my rogue companion.

I paid very little attention to the displays, because I needed to find Holmes, before the staff of Tussauds found us both. I was now convinced that the sneaky detective must be on a case after all. But where had he gotten to?

But at last, I saw him at the back of the room. The detective had already removed his coat and was leaning over to examin a body with his magnifying glass. Given out location, I did wonder if he was examining a real body or a wax figure.

"Blast it, Holmes!" I said, for I was truly irked. "You can't go haring off like that! D'you have permission to be in here?"

Of course he ignored me completely, not moving a muscle as he concentrated on some clue.

"D'you even hear what I am saying!" I demanded as I approached him.

"Of course I hear, Watson. You are quite loud," he said from behind me.

I gasped and whirled around, and there stood Holmes, grinning wickedly. I whirled back around and there he stood examining the body. He was still unmoving as if frozen or _as if he were made of wax. _

"You!" I cried, turning back to the living, breathing Sherlock Holmes. I was otherwise speechless and a bit dizzy from astonishment and from turning about so quickly.

He laughed as he turned up the nearest gas lamp. "Yes, Watson. Ha ha! That is me, and this is me as well. A very fine likeness, is it not?"

"Oh my…but you…When?"

"Steady on, old chap," said the detective still chuckling and patting my arm. "Capital trick was it not?….Hmm…you do look a bit pallid, Watson. We should see about getting you a bit of port."

"No, no I'm fine," I said

"You're as pale as a ghost," said Holmes.

"I am fine," I repeated. "It is a truly amazing likeness. Very handsome, very lifelike…And an honor. A very great honor…" I stuttered, collecting my thoughts. "Why just think, _you_ have been immortalized along with Marie Antoinette and Lord Admiral Nelson. Congratuations, Holmes. If any man deserves this recognition, it is you," I said with spirit, now that the initial shock was wearing off.

"Very well," said Holmes, taking a firm hold of my elbow, as if I needed the support. Then he led me to a door that was labeled, **No Admittance. **"I wish you to meet all the artisans… But first, a drop of port is in order, or brandy; I can't have you passing out."

"I am not going to pass out. I never pass out."

"You did once."

"Well, I was shocked! I had thought you dead…and then, well there you were!" I said loudly.

"Hmm, I suppose I should not have brought _that_ up. It never ends well when we discuss _it_," he murmured, looking at me with concern. I suddenly wondered just how bad I looked.

Then he said, "Never mind, here is the office of the director of the exhibit. Surely he can provide a drop of medicinal port?"

* * *

I was soon seated with a small glass of port, assuring the director, the sculptor and several artisans that the likeness of Sherlock Holmes was amazing, brilliant...the clothes and stance so very realistic...the figure so very handsome and lifelike…

"Excellent. I am pleased that you are pleased," said the director. "You, Doctor Watson, were to be the final judge."

"Me?" said I, feeling pleased and indeed flattered. "I'm sure Holmes is the best judge…"

"And I did not want to bias my judgment, therefore, I used your reaction to determine whether the likeness was apt. Indeed, this was all something of an experiment, a scientific test, if you will," explained Holmes, to those not familiar with his ways.

I could not refrain from snorting at that. Once more, I had been the unwitting subject of Holmes's experiment. I was no longer quite so flattered.

Everyone was still pleased and smiling, "Now that we have the doctor's approval, I assume that we can start on his likeness?" asked the master wax sculptor.

"My what?" I asked.

"Your likeness."

"I couldn't possibly…What could you possibly want with me? I am no one!" I said.

"Don't be obtuse," snapped Holmes. "There can be no exhibit without you, just as there is no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson. Let us hear no more about you being _no one_; that is ridiculous. Now Watson, they want your wax-double to be standing astonished, with your hands in the air, thus." Holmes raised his hands like a surprised actor in a melodrama. "But I say that is a foolish pose. I have never seen you in that pose, not even when I came back…well, let's not mention_ that_. Suffice to say, even when you are very surprised, you do not raise up your hands, unless to point a gun. No we need another pose.

I shook my head vaguely, because I was surprised to hear him say that there could be no Holmes with out Watson (even then, when I was truly astonished, I did not raise my hands, so as usual, Holmes was right.) I was quite glad of the restorative glass of port.

"I demand realism," said Holmes, emphatically. "I've insisted on that from the very start. So we will require a believable pose for Watson. What if he held his gun…" mused the detective, holding out his arm as if aiming a gun.

"Wat if 'e 'eld up a bit 'o bloody cloth?" suggested one of the artisans.

"No, Watson is no amateur," said Holmes. "He would not tamper with the evidence."

"I could be…taking notes…in my notebook?" said I.

"Brilliant!" exclaimed the great man. "Watson will stand on the other side of the corpse. He will be taking notes, which he always does. He may choose his own facial expression," said the detective magnanimously. "So long as it is thoughtful, showing interest it in the case, with his eyes slightly narrowed and his lips slightly open as if he were about to speak. I will, of course, chose the suit that the waxen-Watson will wear, something understated but flattering."

I had to smile, Holmes always loved his playacting, so plotting this little display for Tussauds seemed to be just as good as any case, perhaps better, since he was clearly the star and director of this production.

* * *

A/N A day late is better than never, I hope. Happy Holidays!

Speaking of which, '_All I want for Christmas is a few reviews...'_


	12. Last Second

Based on the prompt 'Last Second,' suggested by Wordwielder

**Rated T**

**Last Second**

"I trust that you and your trained monkeys can tidy up, Lestrade," said Holmes, looking at the dejected cat burglar, the broken china and the bag of swag.

"Oh yes, we can certainly tidy up," agreed the inspector. He was so pleased over the capture of the cat burglar that he ignored the insult to his team. "Are you and Doctor Watson heading home then?"

"I sent the doctor home hours ago," said Holmes. "The capture of Miss Forsythe was a foregone conclusion, and I saw no need to keep him out in the cold for something so anticlimatic."

"Oh, his leg was acting up again, eh?" said Lestrade.

Holmes glared down at the inspector without answering that impertinent question.

The inspector did not take offence, because he was used to the detective's eccentric ways, and besides, the policeman was really very happy that the cat burglar's crime spree was at an end.

"Yes, well, a very Merry Christmas to you Mister Holmes and to Doctor Watson too!" said Lestrade to the detective's retreating back.

The detective stopped and then whirled around, "Christmas?" he asked suspiciously.

"Why…yes, Mister Holmes," said the inspector. "It is December the 24th, though only for another few minutes or so."

"Ah," said the tall detective. "I knew it was December the 24th, but I had forgotten that it meant that Christmas was upon us." The great detective tilted his head slightly then added. "Lestrade, do you perhaps know of any shops or vendors who might be able to provide me with a gift at the last second?"

'Ermm," muttered the inspector, looking up from his notes. "Ermmmm, no. I can't say as I know of any shop or honest vendors, who might be available at this time of night."

"Do you perhaps know of any dishonest merchants?"

"No, Mister Holmes, I do not," said the disapproving inspector.

"Oh, aye," said PC McGrath. "You've gone an'done it now, ha'nt you?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Holmes, looking like an offended eagle.

"Y've gone an' fergot ta doctor's Chris'mas present…agin," teased McGrath. "Lucky fer you; 'e's a man wi' ta patience of a saint. Now m'missus, she wou'n't tolerate gettin' passed o're in ta matter o' getting' gifts. No sir!"

"Mmm," hummed the offended eagle.

"Mister Holmes's situation has nothing to do with you and your missus," snapped Lestrade, who didn't want any untoward rumors following his consulting detective. "And I'm sure the good doctor has better things to do than to worry over Christmas packages."

"Mmm," hummed Holmes, whirling back around and striding down the dark, misty street.

"Merry Chris'mas Mister 'Olmes," called McGrath.

"Merry Christmas, Mister Holmes," called Lestrade.

Holmes waved his hand once in honor of the holiday.

* * *

_'It is indeed fortunate,'_ thought Holmes, _'that the doctor in question is not very particular about people remembering to give him gifts. In fact, he'll probably choose to say nothing about it all.'_

Nevertheless, Holmes was irritated. He _knew _that Watson would have purchased and wrapped a present for him, even if it was something rather pedestrian, like a bottle of port. Although...it _might_ be something more exciting, like the small but valuable collection of fluorescent chemicals and minerals that he gave to Holmes last year. That gift had provided Holmes with days… no weeks of experimentation, weeks without boredom.

Watson might do something like that again this year. He probably would, thought the detective. Watson almost certainly had another interesting gift for Holmes, and Holmes had not got so much a packet of tobacco for his very best (only) friend.

The detective, shoved his fists into his pockets, studying every dark shop that he passed, just in case someone was up late, someone who could provide Holmes with a gift at the very last second…

"Oh, I'm afraid all the shops are closed for the night," said a short, rotund older gentleman, who was suddenly keeping pace with Sherlock Holmes.

'_Where the devil did he come from?'_ wondered Holmes. '_And more to the point, what does he want?' _

The detective looked around warily for any possible accomplices, should this old man prove to be a footpad…or at least a diversion for another criminal.

"You needn't worry, I'm quite alone and am only here to give you some advice young man," the man was old but hale. His beard full and white. His clothes were warm and comfortable...a bit old fashioned but fashioned out of the finest of cloth and leather...some eccentric aristocrat perhaps? Or, more likely, an entertainer, a magician.

Sherlock Holmes gave the man a slightly contemptuous look. "I suppose you do this for effect?" asked Holmes. "Using your powers of observation…such as noting my visual canvassing of the neighborhood and my reticence to speak to you, you deduced that I was suspicious of you. Noticing that I looked into the shops you supposed that I was interested in purchasing some item…"

"A Christmas present for John, although as McGrath suggested, John really doesn't care much whether you give him a gift or not…"

"You presume to call him John?" asked Holmes angrily.

"What John really wants is for you to come home safely. He plans to feed you some of Martha's delicious potato soup and toasted bread. He's waited up for hours and is just becoming a bit worried, so I suggest that you continue walking, Sherlock. I can tell you everything that I need to while we move along."

"You've been spying on our Baker Street lodgings," accused Holmes. "Why? Who are you working for? Are you about to deliver a threat?"

"Good heavens, no!" laughed the old gent heartily. "No indeed. You have been so very good the past few years that I have come, as I said, to deliver some advice. There now, you forced me to repeat myself, and we both know that you hate repetition."

Holmes stopped again, his heart pounding with anxiety. _'This man knows too much. What if this seemingly harmless old man is about to threaten John,_' thought Holmes…'_or perhaps he has already caused my doctor harm?'_

"Nonsense! I would never hurt John. Such a good man," pronounced the odd little man. "I do wish you would stop worrying, Sherlock. I mean no harm to you and yours. Now, I shall get right to the point, so that you can get home to where John is fretting. Really the two of you worry about one another is quite touching and a bit comical," said the stranger chuckling.

"I beg your pardon," said Holmes repressively. He now walked as fast as possible, both to lose the shorter man and to get home to check on Joh….to check on Watson.

"I grant you pardon, of course," said the man. "Now then, you wish to give John a gift worthy of the rather impressive set of…well, I do not wish to ruin _that _Christmas present for either of you. The gift that I suggest, is that you talk to John. Tell him how you really feel, Sherlock…"

"You have _no idea_ how I feel about anyone or anything," snapped Holmes aggressively. "I do not appreciate you intimating anything between me and Joh…and Doctor Watson, nor do I appreciate the familiarity you take with me or my friend!"

"I've known you since you were a puling infant, Sherlock, I believe that gives me the right to be a bit more familiar with you than most. And you needn't worry, I have only the greatest respect for love in all it's forms," said the man smiling gently.

"Love, who the devil spoke of love?" demanded Holmes indignantly.

"I did. It certainly wouldn't be Satan. Sadly, he only loves himself now…" said the old man mournfully. "But you must stop dragging your feet. There is no reason to delay your happiness, or his for that matter. My wish this Christmas is to see the two of you happy at last."

"This is absurd and insulting. John Watson is not …not whatever you are insinuating."

"John is a good, kind, brave man," said the old man sternly. "And he is just as stubborn as you, perhaps more so, which is why I've come to you first. Nevertheless, John will certainly be receptive to you. And while I realize that the situation must remain private, given your country's Byzantine legal system at this time, there should be no problems as long as you are discrete."

"I categorically deny any so called feelings and am quite sure that J…Watson would do the same!" growled Holmes.

"Yes, well you have to say that in public, don't you," said the white-haired man with a frown. "But I want you to carefully consider my advice. I call you young man, because to me you are terribly young, but in reality, neither you nor your doctor is getting any younger. You do not want to wait until the last second with matters of the heart, Sherlock. You do not want to tell someone that you love them, as they are saying goodbye to you for the last time."

"How dare you…"

"Now hurry home before your doctor comes out to look for you. It will only make his leg ache even more. Oh and do make sure John wears the gloves I left for him and make sure that he doesn't lose this pair. Every bloody year I give him gloves or mittens and every year he loses them or gives them away to some poor homeless man or down-on-his luck veteran. He really needs to wear gloves in this cold whether," instructed overly cheerful old man, who looked down at his mittened hands with satisfaction. "Well, Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

Infuriated, Sherlock Holmes, stopped short, to give the old busybody a dose of his own medicine. Holmes fully intended to tell the man…the man, who was nowhere to be seen. There were no alleys, no secluded doorways…

It was disturbing, and Holmes was very seldom disturbed by anything.

As he all but ran back to Baker Street, he reminded himself that all so-called supernatural events, which disturbed lesser minds, could be reasonably explained, once all the facts were determined. Thus, he forced himself to slowdown to a sedate walk, and review all the clues before him. It was only a matter of time before he would be able to rationalize the odd interaction and determine whether it was a curious meeting or a threat. Just a matter of time.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes entered 221B, which was well lit despite the very late…perhaps one would say very early hour. It was nearly twenty minutes past midnight.

"Holmes," said John Watson. "There you are! I was just coming to look for you." Indeed, Watson was apparently in the process of lacing his boots.

"You were worried?"

"Nooo," lied the doctor. "I just thought you might need a hand dealing with Lestrade and his band of merry men," said Watson lightly. "Of course I don't sit around here and fret. That would be stupid."

"You _were_ worried, but there was no need. It just took a bit longer for Miss Forsythe to put in an appearance," said Holmes, removing his coat, which Watson immediately took from him to be certain that it got hung up properly.

"Come sit by the fire, man," said Watson. "And get those damp shoes off. If you need a hand…"

"I can take off my shoes, doctor," said Holmes irritably. "You might be glad to know that Miss Forsythe is in fact in police custody. The case was solved just as I predicted this afternoon. By the way, how is your leg now?"

"My leg?" asked Watson, surprised at Holmes's concern. "Oh it's just fine. It's still a bit stiff; I'm not getting any younger you know," Watson chuckled.

Holmes turned his eagle eyes on his friend, noticing the fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth when his doctor smiled, and then there was just a hint of grey at the temples. No, Watson was actually middle aged, as was the detective who had just a bit of rheumatism at times. Perhaps the old man a point.

"Watson…" began Holmes softly.

"I wanted to thank you for these gloves," said John, waving a pair of soft, chocolate-brown gloves. "They fit perfectly, almost as if you had them custom made this year. And such supple leather, really they are too fine for the likes of me."

"Watson, I didn't leave you any gloves. I've never..."

"No? Well, who ever _did_ leave them had very fine taste," murmured Watson, placing the gloves back under the little tree that he and Mrs. Hudson had set up earlier. "I suppose Mrs. Hudson bought them, anyway, my hands are always cold and I lost my last pair on Tuesday last…or maybe it was Wednesday…"

"Watson! Did Mrs. Hudson make soup?"

"Why yes, she made your favorite- potato soup, I kept it warm by the fire. I thought I'd toast your bread too, so just sit down and I'll fetch a bowl…"

"I don't want soup."

"We made an agreement, Holmes," said Watson, with a hint of his soldier's steel showing through. "_I_ try not to bother you with such mundane things as food while you are on a case, but when the case is over, _you_ are supposed to eat."

"John, I do not want to eat right now!" cried Holmes.

John Watson froze at the use of his given name. This was unheard of. Holmes had _never_ used his given name. The doctor turned slowly, his full attention on the great detective.

"John, what I want is for you to sit down in your chair. I need to tell you something."

Speechless at the sound of his given name twice in less than two minutes, Watson fell back into the chair, which was essentially reserved for his exclusive use. Now alert and frankly worried, the doctor gripped the arm of the chair tightly; his eyes fixed on his friends every move.

Holmes drew his chair closer. He leaned forward and placed his hand on top of the doctor's hand.

Watson stared with wide eyes at the hand on top of his own.

Holmes seemed to think better of his action and began to pull away.

"I don't…mind," said Watson, his face a study in confusion.

"Very well," said Holmes, nodding and placing his hand back. "John, we are neither of us getting any younger."

John nodded because this was quite true. He was suddenly struck with the horrific possibility that Sherlock Holmes was dying form some sort of tumor or heart condition or…

"John," said Sherlock, "What I mean to say…what I'm trying to say... I am _not_ good at this, John."

"John nodded and tried to smile encouragingly.

"But while it may…" said Sherlock, still at a loss for words. "Well, I hope that this does not create complications or cause any trouble, which it should not. It is not as though you or I are indiscrete."

"No, we're not. But...I don't understand," said John, looking confused _and_ concerned now.

"John, I do not wish to wait until the last second to tell you this. John, you are my friend, my companion and my assistant…no, you are my partner. And it is time to tell you how I truly feel…"

* * *

A/N

Merry Christmas-to those who celebrate this holiday.

To others, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, Good Health and Best Wishes. Happy Birthday (it must be someone's birthday) and Happy Wednesday...unless it's Thursday where live...yeah, I suppose that's enough. I wish peace and contentment for you all. Sendai :D


	13. The Case of the Plum Pudding

Merry Christmas. The prompt was:'Christmas dinner with a Scotland Yarder' from KnightFury.

**Rated K+**

**The Case of the Plum Pudding**

"Would you like some spuds, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, certainly, what would a Christmas feast be without boiled potatoes?" responded the great detective.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," chided the slightly red-faced inspector. "We din't all have the benefits of a fine education, now did we?"

"My apologies, Lestrade, I meant no offence, and if I could trouble you for the salt?"

"The bird is to your liking?" asked inspector Lestrade, as he shoved a forkful into his mouth.

"Indeed, it is surprisingly…I mean it is very tasty," said Holmes, forcing himself to be polite.

They ate in silence for several minutes before Lestrade sallied forth with, "Uncommon warm weather, for this time of year, ain't it?"

"Isn't it," corrected Holmes. "Not ain't."

"Yes, well…"

"And I would suggest we forego the small talk, Inspector," said Holmes, with a tight smile.

"Fine with me," said Lestrade, relief smoothing his sharp features. "More peas, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think not," said Holmes, "But might I ask for a bit more wine?"

"Ah, yes. I should have offered sooner, allow me to pour," said Lestrade, graciously ignoring the handcuffs on his guest. "And might I offer a toast…To Christmas with friends?"

There was the uncomfortable sound of teeth grinding together. "To absent friend," said Holmes.

"Don't you mean 'to absent friends'?" asked Lestrade.

"Certainly not," said Holmes sitting back from the table. "I have one friend."

They continued their dinner in silence for several more minutes before hearing the sound of feet marching closer and closer.

"Ah, and that will be my…friend," said Holmes staring at the apparition in the door.

Muddy, bloody, and soaking wet from the waist down, Doctor John Watson strode into the room.

"Been fighting again, Doctor?" asked Lestrade, politely handing the bedraggled doctor a glass of wine.

Watson tossed it back in one go. "No. No, I wasn't fighting," he said wiping his mouth with his battered knuckles. "I fell down the stairs." Watson pursed his lips. "I fell down the stairs twice."

The three men looked at each other.

"You going to finish that?" asked the doctor, eyeing Holmes's half-eaten repast ravenously.

The immaculately groomed detective pushed his plate towards his friend, who descended upon it like a starved wolf.

"Watson, you did bring my release?" prompted Holmes.

"In m'pocket," said Watson after gulping some of Holmes's wine.

"Well then," said Holmes, freeing himself from his handcuffs and pulling out the paperwork for the inspector, "Let us be off."

Watson sighed, finished the wine and snagged some bread for later. Then he stood slowly and stiffly, with another dramatic sigh.

"We ha'n't had the pudding!" protested Lestrade. "I sent round to your Mrs. Hudson. She sent back this lovely plum pudding." He proffered the fine pudding as if it was evidence.

"Sorry, Lestrade. Dinner was passable and the wine, what little I got to taste," he glared at his filthy friend. "Was quite good. But now the game is afoot and…"

"We'd be happy to stay for the pudding," said Watson, sitting down resolutely.

"Watson, we don't have time to waste…"

"Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. I was nearly run over by a train," hissed the good doctor. "I was chased, waded through the sewers, faced off …I mean I fell down some stairs-TWICE. And then I had to share a glass of Christmas punch with your brother while I looked like _this_. Not to mention that I have not eaten for a whole day…"

"Bah! You ate just now."

"I picked a bit of meat off the bones, had one tiny potato and ate those sorry excused for peas. I love plum pudding. I especially love Mrs. Hudson's plum pudding. We will stay for the pudding…"

Lestrade smiled and poured brandy over the pudding. He pulled out a match.

"Watson!" cried Holmes. "I thought you said that Mrs. Hudson wasn't going to cook dinner today."

Lestrade struck the match.

"No, she was going to spend the day with her sister…"

"Lestrade, do not light the…"

**KA-BOOM!**

The pudding exploded. Three soiled men stared at one another, a chunk of pudding fell off Lestrade's shoulder and plopped to the floor.

"I blame you, Holmes," said Watson grimly.

Lestrade was speechless.

"It's not a bad tasting pudding," murmured Holmes, licking his lips speculatively. Then he exclaimed, "AH HA! Cardamom! Not a spice usually used in plum puddings. It is just the clue I needed!"

"Thank you for your hospitality, Lestrade. I believe that I will be solving this case for you before the day is out!" said the great detective. "Come Watson!"

"I hate you," said Watson as they hurried out of the room. "You know that don't you? I hate you…"

Lestrade stood alone now, as plum pudding dripped off him onto the floor. He finally noticed the two constables, who watched from the doorway.

"Well, ha'nt you e'er seen a pudding explode? Go on, find a bucket and some rags."

The rat faced inspector sat, and grabbed the wine, drinking it straight out of the bottle. "A toast" he said to no one, "God bless us, everyone."

Happy Holidays.


	14. Chirp

The prompt is Cricket, from SheWhoScrawls. (Please see A/N at the end of this _scrawl_.)

**Rated K+** (Violence is threatened against an innocent arthropod, but, in the end, no insects are injured. )

**Chirp**

"Oh. Oh. Get it! Get it. Kill it!" cried the older woman. "Ohhh, I feel faint. Hobbs! Oh. My smelling salts! Ohh!"

Sherlock and his friend John crept closer, peeking out from behind the palms and ferns to watch the excitement. Great Aunt Lobelia was having another one of her 'fits', as the family called them.

Sherlock was thrilled that his aunt was performing while John was visiting, because he had so wanted to show John just how funny she was.

The two boys, aged nine and eight, giggled into their hands. John was smaller, but John insisted that was only because he was younger. Sherlock would not have cared if John were small enough to fit into his pocket, indeed that would have been most convenient. Size was not important. The important thing was that John was his friend. His first friend. His only friend. And probably his last friend.

"Stop thinking so much," John whispered in his ear, "you c'n think later after she's done with her fit." Sherlock smiled; the best thing about John was that he understood Sherlock better than anyone else.

Great Aunt Lobelia was still Oh'ing and moaning as her grim-faced personal maid administered the smelling salts. Meanwhile, the parlor maid and the normally staid, reserved butler, stalked around the drawing room hunting for something…

"What are they hunting for?" asked John.

"Probably a spider, she is deathly afraid of spiders," said Sherlock authoritatively.

"I don't like spiders either," said John, wrinkling up his nose. Sherlock liked when John wrinkled up his nose. It was cute, but, being a genius, Sherlock was smart enough not to tell John when he was being cute. John had a rather bad temper for a small boy, and it was best not to be on the wrong side of it.

"Look, look!" whispered John, grabbing Sherlock's arm in excitement and pointing, as a vase tumbled off a table and smashed to the floor.

"OHHHH!" cried Great Aunt. "Oh my nerves! My nerves! Ohhhh!"

Hobbs had to fan the old woman with a lace fan that had perfume on it. Hobbs carried it with her at all times.

"Ha! They can't blame me for that one!" whispered Sherlock. The lads snickered together, because usually, the blame for broken china was laid at Sherlock's feet. Although there were good reasons for that.

"Maybe they're hunting a mouse," suggested John, who'd rather confront a mouse than a spider.

"Maybe it's a snake," suggested Sherlock, with a delicious shudder, he was fascinated by snakes but a little afraid of them at the same time.

"Oooh, a snake would be brilliant," said John with excited wide-blue excited eyes. He liked snakes. Maybe he could catch this one for Sherlock to study…

Then they heard a chirp.

"It's just a mouse, I guess," said John.

"Boring," said Sherlock with a shrug.

"I see it!" cried Betsy, the freckle-faced parlor maid. She pointed under one of the many ornamental tables that littered the drawing room.

The butler, who of course was named Jeeves*, straightened his already straight vest and raised the fireplace poker.

The boys' eyes widened in excitement and apprehension, as the moment of violence arrived. John grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. Sherlock squeezed back.

There was another chirp. And another.

"I see the little brute," said Jeeves, raising his poker.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp… Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

"NOOOOO!" shrieked John, shocking Sherlock and blowing their cover. "No! Don't kill it!"

John abandoned their hiding spot and ran out into the drawing room, where young boys like Sherlock were generally forbidden and where common, ordinary boys like John were always prohibited.

The small blond boy boldly blocked the stunned butler's blow with his shoulder. Then fell to the floor.

Sherlock's shriek rang throughout the house. "You KILLED him! John! JOHN! You Killed HIM! OH, JOHN!"

"I'm not dead," said John from the floor.

Sherlock glared at the horrified butler. "By God, you are lucky. If you had killed John, you would not have got out of this room alive."**

"I barely touched him, Master Sherlock. I tried to stop as soon as I saw him…I…"

"What is going on in here!" demanded Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother and the de facto ruler of their estate.

Great Aunt Lobelia, who had avidly witnessed these exciting new developments, fell back into hysterics.

"Mister Holmes," exclaimed Jeeves. "There was an insect, which terrorized your Great Aunt and which Betsy and I were determined to kill…"

"No, no, no! You can't kill it!" shouted John from the floor, and he burst into tears.

John Watson never cried. Not even when he broke his arm. Not even when his mother died (well, Sherlock was certain that John did cry in private, judging from his swollen red eyes, but he did not cry in public).

No. Tears could only mean one thing. John, Sherlock's dearest and bestest friend was badly hurt, possibly dying, so Sherlock began to cry too.

"Betsy, you and Hobbs will escort my poor, suffering Great Aunt to her room. I'm sure a glass of sherry will revive her spirits," said Mycroft who loved giving orders.

"Jeeves, put that poker down. Sherlock, shut up at once," continued the nearly sixteen-year old Voice of Authority. He glared at the small, huddled boy on the rug, who was hiding something in his hands. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my drawing room?"

"You _know_ who he is, Mycroft!" snarled the nine-year old boy, deliberately wiping his face on his sleeve. "He's _John_, and it's obvious he dying!" That last was fairly shrieked, as Sherlock began grizzling again.

John raised his tear stained face, "No 'm not. I'm not dying, Sherlock. But _please,_ don't let them kill Ping."

Sherlock dropped to his knees and looped his arms around his little friend's torso in profound relief that he wasn't dying.

Mycroft stared in disbelief. His brother Sherlock was _hugging_ another person-on purpose. Clearly this John Watson was much, much more important than Mycroft had realized. Clearly, his informants were not up to snuff. He would have to replace them. But that was not important just now.

"Very well, _he_ is John, and I assume that he is defending a reptile by the name of _Ping_?" said Mycroft, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"A dreadful cricket, sir, and I was not aware that it had a name," explained Jeeves.

"That's no 'scuse for trying to kill him," said a small voice from down on the floor.

"And it's no excuse for trying to kill, John," said a shrill voice from atop John.

"I did not mean to strike the child, Sir. Never," said Jeeves. "I tried to stop my swing…"

John, who was the soul of fairness, raised his head again. "He barely touched me. Just barely smacked my shoulder is all. And it was my fault for getting in the way," the little boy sniffled. "But I _had_ to protect Ping."

On cue, Ping chirped from within the confines of John's cupped hands.

John grinned, his face alight, like the morning sun. Sherlock saw his beaming friend and grinned back. The elder Holmes thought that the smile looked strange but rather nice, on his brother's usually scowling face.

"And the vase?" asked Mycroft.

Jeeves went red and then white. "Entirely my fault, Mister Holmes. I bumped the table in my attempt to corner the beast. In fact, I accept responsibility for the entire debacle and…"

"No, it's partly my fault," said John, determined not to let the poor butler shoulder all the blame.

"But it's mostly _his_ fault," hissed Sherlock pointing at Jeeves. The younger Holmes was not prepared to forgive anyone who struck John for whatever reason.

"Well, we could probably level blame at Great Aunt Lobelia and the cricket as well," said Mycroft. "But what would be the point? Jeeves, be more careful in the future and avoid swinging pokers around in the drawing room. John, I assume you are not in need of medical attention?"

"No…Sir," said John.

"Excellent," said Mycroft, that had been the only thing that really worried him. Now he had only to disband the riot, and then he could return to his father's study to go over the books. "Sherlock, please take your little friend…"

"He's not that little. He only looks little because he's eight and because I'm tall and skinny. But John is tougher than anyone. He beat up Charlie Smith, who's ten and half, for bullying me…"

"I didn't beat him up. I only hit him twice," said John. "…annnnd I suppose I did kick him once."

"That counts as beating him up," said Sherlock vehemently.

"Sherlock! Enough of this!" snapped Mycroft. "Take John_ and_ his cricket to the kitchen. Get yourselves cleaned up. You may begin by blowing your noses, with the appropriate rags. Be sure to wash your hands. Then ask Mrs. Bridges*** for milk, bread and butter. And be sure, absolutely sure that the cricket is released far, _very far_ from the house. Now go."

John carefully herded the cricket into his hands, while Sherlock protectively held his hands around the younger lad's hands. They got up and scuttled out of the room, still joined by their overlapping hands.

On their way out, Sherlock glared a silent but meaningful threat at the still pale butler.

"Mister Holmes I'm am very sorry for all this…" began Jeeves.

"Never mind, Jeeves," said Mycroft, "Most of this fiasco was unavoidable, considering the persons involved.

They both looked toward the stairs whence Great Aunt Lobelia had departed and then to the back stairs whence young master Sherlock was retreating.  
"What I cannot fathom," said Jeeves diffidently, "is the behavior of young John Watson. He is normally such a calm, practical, down-to-earth boy."

"Mmm," hummed Mycroft. "Some childish fancy, I suppose...Jeeves? I don't suppose that there are any of those little cakes left?"

"Why, yes sir. I believe that there are," replied Jeeves, "Shall I fix up a little tray for you? Perhaps with some tea or coffee?"

"Yes. Coffee and cakes, that is a splendid idea, Jeeves," said Mycroft, running his hands over his ample abdomen. "And please see to it that Betsy cleans up the little mess from that vase. I don't think we need mention it to my mother; there is so much bric-a-brac in here that she'll never notice its absence anyway, and Great Aunt Lobelia is bound to forget the incident after a couple glasses of restorative sherry."

"Yes, sir," said Jeeves, relieved that everything was back to normal.

* * *

The boys were hidden in their secret lair. It was a small hollow, well screened by yews and holly.

Ping was safely ensconced in his new home (provided by Cook), which was a jelly jar with a cheesecloth tied round the top. John had added a dirt floor, a lettuce leaf (for dinner) and an eggshell (for Ping's bedroom).

Sherlock was very impressed with his little friend's vast knowledge about cricket care, which was turnabout, since usually, John was amazed by Sherlock's vast knowledge about everything, other than crickets and some (most) sports.

"John," said Sherlock, licking the icing off one of the little cakes, which he had stolen from the pantry to make his best friend feel better. "John, Ping is a very nice cricket. I can see that, of course. But," he narrowed his sharp, pale-blue eyes, "why were you willing to risk your life for…well for an insect?"

John was unable to answer for a minute, no doubt because he was busy chewing and swallowing the last miniature cake. Then he said, "Because crickets are lucky."

"What?"

"Yes. My uncle Jack said so," said the younger lad. "His real name is John, my uncle that is. I was named for him. He's a soldier. He's traveled all around the world, and when he was in China, he met lucky crickets. He said that some people in China keep crickets in cages and have amazing good luck, because of the lucky crickets that live in their houses." John paused, with his tongue poking out between his lips as he considered. "Plus, crickets sing almost like angels, which is pro'bly why they're so lucky"

"I don't believe in luck. It is not logical," said Sherlock.

"Well I do. And I can prove it sign-a-tifically. I saved a cricket last month, and my life got amazingly better that same day. Then I saved a cricket today, and just look how my luck changed already. I got five little cakes for no reason and so did you. I got a new kerchief from Sally, and I have a new pet, named Ping."

"No that's because I stole the cakes for you, and because Sally felt sorry, because you were crying, and because you saved the cricket and gave him a new home."

"EXACTLY!" shouted John excitedly. "Because I saved the cricket and gave him a new home...and then got lucky. You just said it, so I was right all along."

Sherlock frowned. In a way, John almost made sense…but that was ridiculous because…

"When we grow up, I want to live with you, Sherlock," said John, "I can help you with sign-a-tific experiments and beat up everyone who bothers you. And we'll have cakes everyday and keep pet crickets for luck."

Sherlock was going to argue with John about luck in general and lucky crickets specifically. But then John wrinkled up his nose adorably and smiled his special, Sherlock-only smile. Besides, John's plan sounded just about right.

"All right," said Sherlock laying down in the shade, resting his head on his arm and smiling back at his bestest and only friend in the world.

* * *

**Epilogue******

"Where the devil have you been, Holmes!" shouted John Watson. He had to shout a little because Holmes was getting rather deaf.

"I've been collecting," said Sherlock sternly. "I told you that I was going collecting this morning. I knew you'd forget." He knew, because Watson was always forgetting things these days.

"I didn't forget," grumbled Watson, "I was worried, because it is half seven.' Then he added loud enough for the former detective to hear, "Now tea is late. I only hope the stew isn't ruined."

"It will be fine. Your stew is always delicious."

"Well, wash your hands so we can eat!" demanded the white-haired former doctor, who still blushed faintly at compliments.

"Not yet! I have something to show you," said his beak-nosed companion, holding up a pale, green ceramic box.

"It's a box," said Watson.

"I see that your powers of observation haven't diminished much over the years," said the rail-thin old gentleman, sarcastically. "Now look inside the box, carefully."

"Dirt and leaves and a clover flower…I hope you haven't brought a bee into our house," exclaimed Watson, looking around with suspicion.

"For God's sake, Watson, you will soon be blind as a bat. Put on your glasses…"

Chirp.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

"Good Lord, is that a cricket in there?" asked Watson, his blue eyes wide with astonishment.

"Yes. Thankfully, your ears are sharper than your eyes," said Holmes, as he replaced the perforated ceramic lid.

"My ears are sharper than yours, old man," muttered the former soldier, even as he smiled.

"What? What's that, Watson?"

"I said, thank you, Holmes," said Watson speaking loud and slow, "I haven't had a pet cricket in ever-so-many years."

Sherlock smiled, pleased that Watson was pleased.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Watson held the box up and solemnly intoned, "This little fellow shall be named…"

"Ping. You will name it Ping, obviously," said Holmes, leaving no room for dissension.

Chirp.

"Very well, his name is Ping, _Lucky Ping_," said the retired physician.

"I do not believe in luck," said Holmes.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

"Well, I do. My Uncle Jack…"

"No! No Uncle Jack stories please," said Holmes. Watson always repeated himself- the dear, silly old man. Sherlock smiled at his lifelong friend and companion.

"Holmes! Will you now sit down, so that we can eat?" Watson had to fairly yell, in order to get his companion's attention. Holmes was always off woolgathering these days- the darling, old fool.

Chirp. Chirp

"I believe in luck because the first time I ever saved a cricket, was the day I met you," said Watson, handing Holmes a bowl of lamb stew.

"I didn't know that," said Holmes in surprise.

"That's why I was so worried that day we saved, Ping," said Watson, sitting down, grateful to be off his achey leg. "I was terrified that if I let that cricket be killed by your old butler, that I'd lose you as my best friend. You've no idea how frightened I was." Watson wrinkled his nose, as he recalled how worried his youthful self had been.

"Oh…" said Holmes, strangely moved by this confession, and because Watson wiggled his nose, which he always found rather endearing.

"Then we saved Old Ping, and we had amazingly good luck ever since. We got to spend most of our lives together having adventures and…and everything."

"Oh…" murmured Holmes.

"See, there is such a thing as good luck," said Watson firmly.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp…Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

"It's lovely to have cricket song in our home again, isn't it, Holmes?" asked Watson, smiling at the ceramic cricket box and then flashing his Sherlock-only smile at the other old man.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

"Mmm," said Holmes, "yes, it is lucky."

"I said _lovely_, not _lucky_," said Watson.

"I know. I said _lucky_ deliberately," said the irascible former detective. "Because I'm glad the lucky crickets helped forge our friendship."

"Oh...Oh…" muttered Watson.

"I warn you, Watson. Do not get all teary and sentimental on me," said Holmes, shaking his spoon at his best and only friend. "It is unreasonable."

The two old men glared at one another with love in their eyes.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp

Holmes blinked, for no particular reason.

"I say, Watson. I read a paper at the library this week, while I was researching crickets. It was a paper by a man named Dolbear. It seems he proved that you can tell the temperature of the environment based on the chirp rate of a cricket…"

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp….Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

* * *

**A/N**

-As I said at the beginning, the prompt was **Cricket**.

Now, I know nothing about the _game of cricket_, except that men are standing about trying to hit a ball with a bat.

I know… that pretty much describes American baseball too. Well, since I know nothing about sports, I did an end run around the game of cricket (throwing in a gratuitous football analogy), and wrote a story about the singing _insects_ instead. I hope I don't get knocked out of the ring (another sporting term!) for cheating on this prompt. LOL :D

(Besides, I enjoyed writing kid!lock, so I am strangely and sadly unrepentant.) :D

-Probably most of you know that there are many legends concerning crickets. Crickets were kept in China for centuries as pets to enjoy the cricket's song. Some people raised crickets to fight them (I disapprove of that, but I'm a tree-hugger, animal lover sort) finally, some people in China thought that cricket's brought good luck ( I approve of that, you can never have too much good luck…Well, actually that's debatable. Some people believe that if you are _too_ lucky, you'll make the gods jealous. That's assuming that you believe in gods or even in luck).

Moving right along…other cultures have different legends about crickets, but even today, many people keep crickets as pets to enjoy their song. (Or for luck, or …whatever)

-Dolbear's law (1897) states that there is a direct relationship between air temperature and rate of cricket chirping. I will not try to reproduce the formula because that might seem a wee bit pretentious and way too precious.

* The butler was named Jeeves because the author couldn't remember the butler's name from Downton Abby, and because the author was too lazy to think of any other name. (Jeeves and Wooster)

**This is partly paraphrased and partly quoted from The Three Garridebs, by Sir Arthur Conan (1924) Doyle :D

***Um, I couldn't think of a cooks name either, and Mrs. Bridges came to mind (Upstairs/Downstairs)

****Just because I love epilogues.

:D :D :D :D :D


	15. Turnabout

The prompt was '_scarves', _suggested by Wordwielder.

**Rated K+**

**Turnabout**

"Holmes?" I shouted. "Holmes?"

He was nowhere to be found, and nor was my scarf (my new tartan scarf) where I had left it. I supposed that the detective had rather borrow mine than take the time to locate one of his own.

'_Well,' _thought I, '_turnabout is fair play.'_

I marched boldly into his room and went straight for the drawers, which contained his scarves.

It was most odd; all his scarves were missing.

I knew for a fact that there were two scarves in there on Thursday the last, since I had put the second one away myself.

An odd little mystery.

'_What the devil has he done with all the scarves?_' I wondered.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson!" I called, after I had knocked at her door.

"Oh, it's you, Doctor Watson," she said as if surprised. Even after all these years, she still seemed surprised that I shared lodgings with Sherlock Holmes.

"And who else would it be?" I asked, following her and the smells of butter and cinnamon...and something else. We stopped in the kitchen and I eagerly accepted a fresh-from-the-oven biscuit.

"I have come, Mrs. Hudson," I explained, "in search of a scarf, to keep out this bitter cold."

"Oh, Mister Holmes already took all of my scarves, save the one with the fur trim," she said, while she stirred a pot of something odd-smelling. It was the smell of something else, and now it quite over powered the delicious smell of the hot biscuits.

I returned to the matter of the scarves. Clearly, her fur-trimmed tippet would not suit me, no matter how cold it got. I began to doubt the wisdom of venturing forth into the frigid arctic air sans scarf or gloves (I'd misplaced mine again a few days ago.) Perhaps, I should stay in.

And the idea of soup on a winter's evening seemed appealing. Sadly, the soup on the stove did not smell appetizing at all. I lifted the lid off the large pot again and sniffed cautiously. It smelled off, definitely off.

"Um, _cabbage_ soup?" I asked politely.

"Towels and rags soup, Doctor Watson," she said, her eye's twinkling at my blank look. "I'm scalding my dish rags, before adding soap flakes."

We both laughed heartily at my expence.

"Well, I'm glad I didn't taste the broth," I said, snatching up another delicious biscuit.

"I suppose," I began, "I suppose that we will have _something_ for tea later." I may have sounded a bit pathetic, perhaps deliberately.

"Oh, Doctor! When have I ever left you boys to starve?" she asked, standing with her hands on her hips. "Get on with you, so I can finish my work and your tea."

I stole a last treat and ran up the stairs to wait for my mysterious friend.

* * *

It was getting late, and my mysterious friend had not yet put in an appearance. This was hardly unusual, but it was so cold out that I worried. I worried so much that I did not care to eat.

I worried that he had gotten in trouble on some case involving scarves. I worried that he'd been attacked or had slipped on the ice; in either case I worried that he might be freezing to death somewhere on the streets of London.

"Mrs. Hudson!" I called, knocking at her door. She answered, luckily still dressed.

"Mrs. Hudson, I need to go out and it is very, very cold and…"

"Looking for _him_ again," she guessed shrewdly.

I nodded.

"And you want to borrow my fur tippet?" she guessed, quite in error.

"Err, no. No, I was thinking about your velvet table runner, it would look just like a scarf and…"

I stopped, because she looked terribly scandalized at the thought of one of her lodgers tramping about London wearing a blue, violet and green velvet table runner. It was a moot point, because the man that I intended to search for was now entering the flat.

"Watson!" said the great man, "Surely you do not intend to go out in this weather, in that flimsy excuse for a coat and without gloves, scarf or hat?"

"I would have worn a hat!" I snapped, smoothing the front of my _flimsy_ coat. "Anyway, you have been out in this icy weather all evening." I refrained from saying without me and without a note. I had no wish to sound needy.

The detective merely sized me up and smiled. It was the sort of shark-like predatory smile that others found repulsive or frightening. I only smiled back, used to being an open book where he was concerned and relieved to have him home safe and sound…and unfrozen.

"The Doctor wanted to wear my table runner round his neck," complained Mrs. Hudson, causing me no little embarrassment as he raised a brow.

"Now Doctor, you cannot be seen wandering about the city, with a table runner wrapped around your neck, think of your reputation!" he teased.

"That's all very well," I grumbled. "But, you were the one wandering around for hours in the coldest weather London has seen in a decade. You must be frozen."

"Not at all, I had a hat and a scarf and gloves!" said the gleeful detective. Yes, gleeful. Something was up.

"_You_ nicked my scarf," I said chasing him up the stairs, while our housekeeper wondered what was wrong with us, and what was the world coming to, what with men wandering the streets at all hours and wearing table runners. What was next? Doilies?

"I'm sending up hot soup, which you will both eat!" she called, before slamming her door.

"Holmes, were you on a case?" I asked. I made sure that I did _not_ sound upset about being left out.

"No, I was not," he said, as he dropped his deerstalker hat, his scarf and gloves and then coat onto the floor. As usual I followed after him, picking up each item and stowing it carefully away.

He dropped into his chair looking rosy cheeked and terribly smug, "What say you, Watson? How about a drop of sherry, or shall we open a bottle of wine?"

"Neither, not until you tell me what you were about," I said with narrowed eyes. "I know you. You've done something quite clever and possibly illegal. I deserve to be forewarned."

"You worry too much, Watson," he said getting up and pouring us each a sherry.

"No I don't, and you are trying to put me off," said I.

"I took some scarves which I had collected and gave them to the Irregulars," he said. "There. That's it."

"You nicked my scarf and gave it away?" I asked.

"The lad who received it needed it more than you, Watson," he said making me feel like a cad. I must have frowned.

"You are upset," he said.

"No, not at all," I lied.

"I upset you, by taking the scarf…"

"No!"

"By giving it away?"

"No."

"By…"

"If you just give me one minute, Holmes," I said. "I am not upset, however…"

"Ah, the infamous however!" he cried.

"What you did, was very compassionate, nobel even. _However_, you might have asked me first, told me that you were taking my scarf. I might have come…" I sounded whiney. That had to stop. "But no matter, Capital sherry, is it not."

Holmes sighed. "There is a reason I did not ask you to go. There were not enough scarves," I must have returned to my blank, confused look. "And two coats were required also. Well, I couldn't very well take the coat off your back, that would be going too far."

"Oh my God, you broke into a store…" I said.

"No, heavens no. I wouldn't steal from an honest vender or shopkeeper," said Holmes, "No, I stopped by a residence where the number of coats and scarves far out number the people who probably never wear them anyway, obviously, I did not like to involve you in breaking and entering."

"Mycroft. You broke into your brother's house and nicked his scarves," I deduced, shaking my head.

"And two coats and a bottle of wine," he said with a sly smile.

"But surely his coats are too big?" I asked.

"The boys will make do."

I thought for a moment. "You should have taken some blankets."

"I took two of yours. And seven of Mycroft's."

"This felony just keeps getting worse," I said chuckling at the absurdity. I was also moved that he cared about the Irregulars enough to ensure that they remained warm and safe.

"I confess that I thought you might be more particular about the breaking and entering," said Holmes smiling.

"Oh no. It was for a good cause, after all."

"And you really don't mind your scarf," he asked.

"Not a bit, all for a good cause," I said smiling.

He smiled back, like a smug shark.

* * *

"Watson? Watson!" he bellowed.

I rose from my warm nest of blankets, pulled on my dressing gown and stumbled down the stairs.

"Watson, I cannot find my…Is that my scarf? You are wearing _my_ scarf," he said indignantly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake…you woke me up over a scarf?" I asked.

"It's _my_ scarf. Mrs. Hudson knitted that scarf for me."

"And you took mine," I said stifling a yawn, _'And turnabout is fair play,' _I added silently.

"You agreed it was for a good cause," Sherlock reminded me.

"I nicked your scarf to keep warm," I said. "That's for a good cause too"

"Watson!"

"Holmes!" I said. "It happens to be freezing in my room. I _need_ the scarf more than you. Now I'm going back to bed."

"You took my blankets too," said Holmes.

"It's for a…"

"…good cause," said Holmes, seemingly he recognized defeat. "Might I trouble you for _one_ of the blankets."

"You took _both_ of mine," I reminded him.

"But…"

"And it is freezing in my room, quite literally," I said firmly.

"You could... sleep on the sofa...here in the sitting room next to the fire. You'll be warmer, and will require only one blanket,"said Holmes, his voice gained excitement as he warmed to the idea.

It was easier to just give in.

"Fine, help me move the sofa closer to the fire," I said.

"I'll move the sofa. You get the blankets, Watson," he said, smiling that smile of his. Something was up. Nevertheless, I trudged back to my room for the blankets and a pillow as well.

When I got back to the sitting room, our chairs had been pushed aside, a log had been added to the fire and the sofa took pride of place in front of the hearth. I was surprised to see Holmes sat in one corner of the sofa, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Homes, what in the world…"

"It is cold in my room too. One blanket will not be enough. We will each take one end of the sofa and share the blankets…and the fire too, obviously."

"I don't know…" I said dubiously.

However (the infamous however returned), the fire was warm, my room really was freezing and I was very, very tired.

"And I have opened up Mycroft's wine," said Holmes with a smirk, holding up two glasses.

It was clear that I was not going to be getting any sleep for a while.

I could stand here and get chilled. I could go back to my cold room and freeze…or I could share warmth and wine with my best friend.

Which one do you think I chose?


	16. Chapter 16

Prompt: A really hideous knitted scarf-suggested by cjnwriter.

**RatedK+**

**That Color Suits You**

Holmes held it up in the air. It was a bright, fire engine red with orange stripes. It would be easy to spot, even in the densest fog.

"But what is it?" asked the sleuth.

He stretched it out, all four feet of it; it was gnarled and twisted and minded me of a basket of writhing snakes that I'd seen in the market in old Kandahar, many years ago. I did not mention the snakes.

"But what is it?" He asked again. Clearly, his great mind was at a loss.

I reached out and rubbed the knit between my fingers. The yarn was particularly rough and sturdy...and would no doubt be very itchy against his skin. I rubbed my own neck in sympathy.

"Watson! I demand to know what this is and what I am expected to do with it!" said Holmes, looking as irritable as an old badger.

No doubt, he truly was at sea on this one, and he hated not knowing. Or...perhaps, he did know, but feared the truth.

I could hear Mrs. Hudson returning with the promised scones.

"It's a scarf," I whispered sternly. "You_ like_ it. You like it _very much_. And it will keep you warm in the coldest, wettest storms...Wellll, my goodness!" I cried out jovially to Mrs. Hudson, counteracting his fierce hawk-like glare. "Don't those scones smell wonderful!"

Our housekeeper smiled and turned to place her tray on the table; I took the opportunity to elbow Holmes, who turned his baleful look on me. I nodded meaningfully.

"Thank you for this very red scarf," said Holmes dutifully. I nudged him to keep him talking. "I... like it. I like it very much." Oh dear, he was repeating everything I had said. It was as well that I hadn't mentioned the snakes. "It will keep Watson warm in the coldest, wettest storms." He smiled like a schoolboy as he finished his recitation.

Wait! I thought. What did he mean by saying Watson?

"Oh no, Mr. Holmes," said our housekeeper. "I made this scarf particularly for you, remembering the grippe you came down with last year. Now just you put this muffler on." She began wrapping the scarf round and round his neck. "Mrs. Riley helped me choose this yarn when she taught me knitting last month. It is a strong, sturdy yarn, guaranteed to last for years."

I regret to admit that I smirked at his discomfiture. I'm embarrassed to recall that I even snickered as he reached up to scratch his neck..._and it was guaranteed to last for years_.

"A fine scarf, Holmes, very fine," I said, happily plucking a warm scone off the tray. "It looks very well on you. The color suits you." With _that_ scarf, I'd never lose him in a crowd again. "You will never feel the cold with that muffler round your neck." I added, seeing his forehead dotted with sweat.

And there was nothing he could do. Although he frequently (dare I say, usually) dispensed with manners and courtesy, he would never offend Mrs. Hudson, who was one of the few people he cared for.

"I chose those colors just for you Mister Holmes. They'll bring out the auburn in your hair," she said, clasping her hands together. How she adored her pet, I thought. Then she added, "That red would _never_ suit Doctor Watson; it would make his face too ruddy."

Holmes smirked, and I stifled a frown. My face was _not _ruddy.

"That's why I made yours blue and lavender, Doctor!" she said, "So it will bring out the color of your eyes; you have such lovely eyes."

For a moment, I thought Holmes was choking on his scone. For a moment, _just a moment_, I wished that he had.

She quickly wrapped the blue and lavender (_Lavender!_) scarf, tightly about my neck like a worsted noose.

It scratched my neck like the very devil, and I could feel myself begin to overheat.

I thought of snakes again, constrictors that could strangle a man...

But what could I do? She was so pleased and proud, and she was like a mother to me, to both of us. I ignored my friend's self-satisfied smile and insolent chuckles. After all, his red and orange scarf was no better than mine.

"It looks well on you, Watson," said the smug detective, "It brings out the color of your lovely eyes."

I grit my teeth as Mrs. Hudson beamed at her boys.

"I like it. I like it very much," I recited. " It will keep me warm in the coldest, wettest storms…"

* * *

A/N Sadly I was not able to complete the prompts for Dec. 28th and 29th, BUT I will get to them before the end of 2015. (Just kidding, it might take a couple of weeks but I will get them done. I will not fail this Challenge!)

:D


	17. Chapter 17

The prompt was '_The end of another year_,' suggested by KnightFury.

NOTE: This chapter kept disappearing into some fanfic/internet void (And I do have a witness). Sooo, I am reposting it for the fourth time today. Hopefully, the fourth time is the charm.

**Rated K+**

**Another Holiday**

"Watson!" called Holmes. "Watson!"

The detective looked around the sitting room. Watson's coat hung in its usual spot, barely damp. So he'd been home for hours. The tea on the table was cold and untouched…a bad sign. No fire in the fireplace, no lights on. The doctor was not waiting up for the triumphant return of the consulting detective? All very bad signs.

Watson had been distracted, melancholic since before Christmas. After conducting extensive research, the consulting detective was certain that Watson's melancholia was a common grief reaction often seen around 'The Holidays' when people were reminded of the loved ones they had lost.

Clearly, John Watson was grieving over his lost wife. Obviously, Sherlock Holmes, his best friend was expected to 'cheer him up'.

Taking thought to action, Holmes had brought the doctor on case after case; after all, Watson loved cases.

Frankly, Sherlock thought them mostly very dull cases but was willing to make a sacrifice for his dear friend.

They worked straight through Christmas. They solved nearly all of Lestrade's cases and a few of Gregson's as well.

The treatment seemed a success. The doctor's spirits had risen. He'd been eager to assist on the Holmes's most recent case. Yet it had all come crashing down when Watson got lost in the East End. He had returned home, hours later a changed man, a shadow of his former self. Something had happened to remind the doctor of his grief.

For the past twenty-four hours Sherlock Holmes had extended himself. He had attempted to be compassionate and understanding.

He had tried to 'talk' about sentiment (It hadn't worked out well. Watson abruptly rushed out of the room, muttering something about a schedule). He had forced his recalcitrant friend to accompany him on yet another case (An incredibly easy, incredibly dull case, which even Mrs. Hudson could have solved). And then, four hours into the non-case, just when the consulting detective was ready to explain the only mildly interesting point of interest, he'd noticed that Watson had disappeared without a word to anyone.

This was unheard of. Watson never disappeared in the middle of the case. That would be rude and unprofessional; Watson was never rude and unprofessional.

This was very bad, very bad indeed.

"Oh there you are, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson. "Late again! And Doctor Watson turning his nose up at his favorite spice cake and letting that tea turn cold."

John Watson turning down spice cake? This was incredibly bad.

"Ah, you did speak to him, Mrs. Hudson? How were his spirits?" asked the detective.

"Well, he was in his room. He only came out to ask me for a good, strong length of rope because string wasn't strong enough."

"Strong enough? Strong enough for what?" asked Holmes frowning. He did not like where his thoughts were leading him.

"Well, he didn't say," said Mrs. Hudson. "Just ran back to his room." She gathered the tea things and headed back downstairs. "Will you be wanting tea Mister Holmes?"

"No, goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."

"Well, I don't know," murmured the housekeeper, "really, you should have a bite of supper…" The door closed behind her.

It was bad, and odd, thought Holmes, very odd indeed and very worrisome…

He heard a sound. It was a funny gasping sound…and whimpering. A Horrible, pathetic whimpering sound. He was embarrassed and very concerned. He couldn't interrupt Watson, not if the man were…crying. The doctor would hate it.

But how could he stand and listen to than heartbreaking whining…clearly his friend was in desperate straits.

Holmes stood, irresolute.

Then there was a crashing sound, a final whimper and then silence.

Holmes, his heart having risen into his throat, was already running to Watson's room.

Why had he waited? He was a fool!

Running and fearing the worst. Trying the door.

It was locked. There was a muffled sound…There's still hope! He broke down the door…

And rope was looped around his dear friend, but thankfully not around his friend's neck.

Watson's legs were horribly tangled in the line, at the end of which was tied a small, tan-colored bull pup. The pup looked up at the detective and began to whimper and whine.

Watson, blushing like a bride, bit his lip, apparently trying to free himself (in vain) and trying not to giggle (also in vain). One might have thought the man drunk.

"Ermm, hullo Holmes," said Watson, coughing to disguise his snickering.

"Forgive me for not knocking," said Holmes, assessing the situation in front of him.

"I'm afraid that Gladstone became excited as we played with his little red ball, which I believe has rolled under the dresser," explained Watson, who somehow blushed a darker red, almost a crimson color. "Anyway, he ran round me over and over and somehow we got tangled…and I may have…fallen…a bit."

"You found the pup yesterday in the East End."

"Yes. Yes, I did. I heard his whimpers…"

"Ah, the whimpers," said Holmes, nodding sagely.

Watson nodded and continued, "The poor thing was in a large box, stuffed in a bin. Well, of course I rescued him. And no one knew where he'd come from…"

"You were not lost yesterday, you were searching for his master."

"Yes, there was always a chance that some child had lost his or her dog and…and then too, I might have come across the cruel fiend who mistreated this dog and then I'd have something to say! Let me tell you!" said Watson with righteous ire.

"Instead, let me untangle you, Doctor," said Holmes, who knelt to untie the Gordian knot in which Watson found himself.

The detective spoke as he worked, "You have been caring for this mongrel…"

"Now really, Holmes! Gladstone is no mongrel!"

"You were up most the night with him and hid in here with him this morning instead of taking your toast. You returned home this afternoon to…"

"To walk him, yes. I wanted to be sure he was housetrained and well behaved before…before I introduce him to you," said Watson.

"Ah, now I understand it all," said Holmes finally freeing the good doctor. "You labor under the misapprehension that I care."

"Oh, well," said Watson, gathering the dog close for comfort. "Well, no. Of course not. Why should you care about me? That's silly. And that's fine, of course, it's all fine..."

"My dear doctor," said Holmes, " I am a creature of reason and logic. I am not used to expressing…sentiment. However, what I meant to say was…I do not care if you wish to keep a canine in our lodgings. Of course, you being my friend, I do care for your wellbeing. In fact, I was quite concerned recently and then just now…"

"Holmes," interrupted Watson. "I'm no good at this either. But as it is a holiday…"

"What? Another holiday?" said Holmes annoyed. "We just had Christmas! No do not look concerned, Watson. If there is another holiday, I shall find us a case at once…"

"Holmes, to begin with, it's New Years Eve, and secondly…what's all this about cases! Surely even you must be tired from all the cases we've been on. They were not even very interesting, most of them," said Watson.

"Oh. Oh. You are tired of cases?"

"I am only tired of all these little ones, one right after the other. Frankly, you did not seem very interested in them." "You wish to remain at home, even though it's a holiday."

"Well, I'm not in the mood for some big New Years Eve bash, no," said Watson. "Honestly, I'd prefer to stay home with you and Gladstone. I'd like you to get to know Gladstone. After all, he's a new member of our family."

"Family. Family is it?" said Holmes speculatively.

"Well, dash it all, yes. You are like family to me Holmes. And so knowing that you care a little, means well, it means…"

"Watson!" said Holmes loudly, startling both his friend and the pup. "I suspect we will both be more comfortable not discussing sentiment anymore. And why should we discuss it at all. We are family and that is all we need to know."

"Yes, splendid," agreed Watson with relief. He didn't want to blather on about sentiment anymore than Holmes did.

"Now as to this canine," said Holmes. "I don't suppose he'll be any use sniffing out clues, not with that sad excuse of a nose."

"Really, Holmes, I wish you wouldn't insult him."

"Not an insult. A fact," said Holmes, steepling his hands together. "So he will be living here gratis, providing nothing to our household."

"He'll provide loyal companionship," said Watson.

"Oh you already provide enough of that," said Holmes dismissively. "I suppose we could think of him as a watch dog?"

"You're having me on, Holmes!" exclaimed Watson.

"Good Lord, yes! You should have seen your face, Watson!" said Holmes, pleased with his joke and pleased to see his friend smiling and laughing again.

"Let us go and celebrate this New Years Holiday. Tell me what we must do, and does your canine join in?"

"For heaven's sake, Holmes. Don't pretend you don't know about New Years Eve parties. I know that you do, even if you prefer not to participate," grumbled Watson, although he still smiled.

"Well, old man, why don't we…share a glass or two of that wine my brother sent down," suggested Holmes.

"A capital idea…but what about Gladstone?" asked Watson, following his friend out to the parlor, with the pup tucked under one arm

"Well, I bow to your superior knowledge in the matter of canines, but I fear that wine may not agree with it."

"_HIM_, _his_ name is Gladstone and _he_ is not an it," said Watson.

"Yes, yes. Well bring the cur along, and our first toast shall be to Gladstone," said Holmes who felt rather lighthearted with relief.

It had been tiring worrying about Watson. It had been tiring and dull going out on all those cases. And now, the old Watson was back, and all because of a silly bull pup on the end of an over long rope. That dog could stay forever as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned.

Having uncorked a bottle of wine, he poured a bit into a glass, swirled it around and proceeded to smell it, taste it, roll it over his tongue.

Watson was well used to this ritual and waited patiently.

"A fine white…just a hint of mulberry overtones," said Holmes. "My brother can be counted on to know his wines."

He handed a glass to the doctor.

"A toast to Gladstone!" said Holmes. Watson raised his glass. The door opened and Mrs. Hudson, entered with a late supper.

"What is _that_?" she demanded, glaring at the pup.

"That, Mrs. Hudson, is the newest member of our establishment," announced Holmes.

"Well, I don't know…"

"You are just in time to share a New Years glass of wine with us, Mrs. Hudson!" said Holmes.

"Well, I don't know…" she frowned at the dog.

"And a kiss for good luck!" said Holmes, leaning forward and brushing her cheek, then he whispered low and fast, "He loves the dog. It makes him happy. Let it stay. Please?"

"Well, I don't…"

Holmes smiled at Mrs. Hudson intently, like a great bird of prey. Watson smiled up hopefully, holding the pup, who may have tried to smile winsomely (it can be hard to tell when a bull pup smiles, winsomely or otherwise.)

"Well, I suppose…" "Excellent!" announced the detective. He saw Watson smiling with relief and grinned broadly. The wretched little dog that made Watson smile was staying and that was that.

The detective took the tray away from the housekeeper who now smiled graciously. He then handed her a glass of wine. "I propose a toast, to Gladstone!" said Holmes

"To family and friends!" said Watson.

Then Mrs. Hudson added, "And to a Happy New Year!"

**A/N **This has not been proof read as much as I'd like. But I really wanted to publish it in 2014. So I apologize for any errors and...

Happy New Year! :D :D :D :D :D


	18. The One or the Other

Prompt from December 17th, _'Pirate AU', _suggested by the august Hades Lord of the Dead.

**Rated K+**

**The One or the Other...**

Captain Sherlock Holmes- pirate, commander of the infamous Hound and the Scourge of the West Indies sat in the dank, cold cell. He had ignored his last supper, although he did drink the wine, a nice dry red. No doubt courtesy of his brother. Apparently, Mycroft was not going to save Sherlock from his fate this time, indeed, Mycroft was not even paying him a last visit, for which the pirate captain was devoutly grateful.

The barest hint of a breeze crept through the barred window set high in the stone wall; he could smell the salt sea-tang on the air, even over the fetid stench of the dungeons.

He imagined himself back on his ship, The Hound. She'd be resting on the billows now…unless some unwary prey hove into view. He imagined himself standing in the rigging, the feel of the sheets thrumming*, and the air racing past, drawing tears from his eyes. He could almost hear the sounds of the rigging and sails, the calls of his crew, he imagined how Doctor Watson, who fearlessly (but awkwardly) followed his captain even up to the crosstrees, would giggle after making some quip or how he might angrily demand that allowance be made for an injured sailor or...or…thought the buccaneer, perhaps it would be better not to imagine his life on his ship.

The ship was history now. His life was history, or would be shortly after daybreak.

Holmes mentally shook himself, bringing him back to his final, dismal reality.

Holmes had no regrets about his failed mission. The plan had been a good plan; it should have worked. He'd thought it _was_ working. Holmes had made it as far as the library in the governor's mansion. Yet once he cracked open the safe; it was empty. The secret papers, which Mycroft required, were not there. The library however was surrounded with redcoats, who had captured him easily and dragged him off to the fort.

It had been a trap. But who had set it?

Only his brother, Mycroft, knew that Sherlock had been hired to purloin the papers, which would prove that the British governor really worked for the American spy, Miss Morsten.

Only his trusted friend, Doctor Watson had known the specifics of the break-in, since the Doctor was supposed to have distracted Miss Morstan.

Clearly, one or the other had betrayed him.

Logically, Mycroft had no motive to betray his brother; the bureaucrat needed the documents just as much as the buccaneer needed the money. Not to mention the fact that having Sherlock Holmes hung for piracy would surely stall Mycroft's rise in government. So, not Mycroft.

That left John Watson, who had a motive. A beautiful, brilliant, blond motive named Mary Morstan. So...

Holmes had no regrets about the failed plan, but he did have a broken heart.

* * *

* On sailing ships, the sheets were the ropes which raised and lowered the sails. The cross trees were located above the top mast, and they to stabilize the shrouds (more ropes) leading from the topgallant or royal masts.

**A/N **I couldn't leave Captain Holmes in that dungeon.

The rest of the story (aptly named The Rest of the Story), will be published in the next day or so. Because The Rest of the Story contains piratical violence, I am rating it M and publishing it separately (in keeping with the Challenge Guidelines which require ratings of K or T).


End file.
